


Broken English

by estepheia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comic)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Resurrection, Road Trips, Schmoop, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 8x04 The Long Way Home (comics), goes AU after that - Ethan is dead. Killed while imprisoned by the Initiative. Then why is he idly leaning against the Autobahn-sign, holding a little take-away tray with two tall plastic cups, waving a crudely painted cardboard sign that bears the letters COW?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Broken English

The hitchhiker is idly leaning against the Autobahn-sign, a dead man in a three-piece suit, holding a little take-away tray with two tall plastic cups and waving a crudely painted cardboard sign that bears the letters COW.

The BMW’s headlights wash over the man’s gaunt frame, almost too fast to make out any details. Almost. Short dark hair that glints silver in the headlight’s glare, a well-trimmed beard, eyes like black beads. But it’s the insouciant smile that Giles recognizes, the smile that has always been unmistakable.

Giles’s foot stomps on the breaks before he’s even checked the rear-view mirror. Thanks to the anti-skid system, the BMW comes to a halt right next to the Autobahn-sign. Tyres screech. Blowing its horn, the Toyota behind him swerves to the left, narrowly avoiding the BMW’s rear, then heads for the acceleration lane and disappears in the tail-light studded darkness of the motorway.

Giles exhales. His heart is racing. He feels like he’s burning up, in spite of the car’s AC. He stares at his whitening knuckles for several seconds until he realizes he’s gripping the steering wheel like a madman. Loosening his grip, Giles slowly turns his head to look at the apparition. A very solid apparition, for the man raps against the passenger window, producing a very real, solid sound that sends another jolt through Giles’s racing heart.

Giles takes a deep breath. At the push of a button, the window slides down.

“Knock, knock,” Ethan says, leaning forward to peer into the car. “Who’s there?”

“Ethan.” Giles’s voice is flat.

“The one and only.” Ethan is positively preening.

So, the image that has been imprinted on Giles’s brain ever since he saw the footage from Buffy’s comlink, the image of Ethan’s blood and brain splattered all over the prison cell wall - fake, nothing more. Another lie. He should have known. Giles grimaces at his own naivety. “Well, you certainly didn’t stay dead long.”

“Aww, did you mourn me, Rupert?” His tone is light-hearted, but a serrated edge seems to be lurking under his smile. “I’m touched.”

“What do you want?” Giles strives to look cool and decisive. In control. It won’t do to admit that he did, indeed, mourn his earstwhile friend. In a fashion. A completely reckless, unbecoming fashion involving too much whiskey and a one-night-stand best forgotten.

Ethan’s reply is drowned out by several cars blowing their horn, as they barrel past the stationary BMW, reminding Giles that he’s a sitting duck in the middle of a lane leading from the gas station to the autobahn.

Ethan tosses his cardboard sign on the back seat. A moment later he’s lounging on the passenger seat, balancing the two coffee cups on his lap. Looking more at ease than he has any right to be.

“I have no time for your games!” Giles’s voice is cold. “Get out!”

Ethan raises his hand defensively. “All I want is a lift and a little chat. Come on, Rupert, for old time’ sake.”

“What kind of old times? The kind where you spike my drink to turn me into a demon?”

Ethan affects a sigh. “I believe I already paid for that.”

Another car rushes past them, tooting its horn.

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” Giles states.

“You’re going to Berlin. Don’t look so surprised, old friend. When I heard that Dannenberg’s are auctioning off a 16th century palimpsest of Abramelin’s Sacred Magic, I knew you’d try to purchase it for your precious Council,” Ethan says, looking smug. “As it happens, we have the same destination.”

Resigned, Giles puts the car into gear, and steps on the gas. Like a horse eager to race, the BMW lurches forward. Within seconds, they are on the motorway, heading east.

“Fasten your seat belt.”

“As you wish,” Ethan purrs.

Smug bastard!

*

For the next two minutes, neither of them speaks.

Giles keeps his eyes peeled on the road and the rear-view mirror, pretending that driving safely on the wrong side of the road requires his complete concentration.

A November chill seems to have crept into the car. Looking for a way to turn up the heating, Giles fiddles with the buttons in the BMW’s cockpit. He hates these modern cars. The sheer number of buttons and dials is quite intimidating. Of course, he hits the wrong button.

“...You just keep on pushing my looove over the boooorderliiiine...”

Giles hits it again, cutting Madonna off in mid-song. Stupid rentals. He misses his old Citroen, the one Spike trashed.

He can feel Ethan’s eyes on him, his scrutiny, his quizzical smile. It makes him self-conscious, uncomfortably aware of the weight he’s put on during his last trip to Rome, the grey in his hair, and the lines that the years have dug into his face.

It also makes him aware that, no matter how many years have passed since they last fucked, no matter how much Giles despises Janus and everything he stands for, his body still thrums in Ethan’s presence, like a time bomb steadily ticking the seconds and minutes away until its inevitable destruction.

Of course, Ethan must never know. He’d only use it for leverage.

Giles shoots a glance at his unpredictable passenger. It’s too dark to make out many details, but it’s clear that the wily old sorcerer has seen some wear and tear. He is thinner than Giles remembers him. The lines around his mouth and eyes cut deeper now, and Ethan’s hair and beard shimmer in a strange mixture of black and silver, giving the old trickster an undeservedly distinguished look.

It’s not fair. A man of Ethan’s dissolute lifestyle should at least have the decency to look debauched, with sagging flesh and tell-tale red veins. Instead, Ethan’s ash-grey three-piece suit makes him look like a high-ranking civil servant. Or like a marriage swindler of the first water...

It makes Giles wonder what kind of deal Ethan has struck.

“Coffee?” Ethan breaks the silence, raising his little tray.

“I’m afraid I have to decline. My tolerance for surprises is not what it used to be.”

“Beware of Janus worshippers bearing gifts?” Ethan manages to look offended. “My, my, you really do bear a grudge, my friend.” He makes a great show of drinking from both cups, then offers the tray again. His hand, Giles notices, is rock steady.

With a sigh, Giles picks one cup at random and slips it into his cup holder.

Ethan shrugs, and sips his hot beverage, savouring it as though he were sampling an exclusive wine. “German tea is frightful,” he smalltalks, “but the coffee’s good.”

Giles gives no answer. He’s a man at war, on his way to buy a grimoire that may well make a great deal of difference in the conflict Buffy and her Slayers are facing. He has no stomach for idle chit-chat.

A whole battallion of questions parades through his head: How did Ethan escape? Why did he choose to reappear when playing dead offered anonymity and safety? What does he want? How did he know Giles’s itinerary? And most of all: What’s Ethan’s role in the upcoming conflict?

“Hard to believe that there used to be a border here, isn’t it,” Ethan remarks, as they pass the small town of Helmstedt.

It’s true. There are no barbed wire fences, no guard towers. No sign of the Iron Curtain that used to cut the mundane world in half. The “Todesstreifen”, the no man’s land between the two Germanies, is gone. There’s probably a lesson in this, somewhere, but Giles maintains his stony silence. In the cup holder his coffee cools, untouched.

It’s Sunday night. Not a lot of traffic at this time of night. Lorries and trucks are banned from the motorways until 10pm. The largest vehicles Giles overtakes are cars with Polish number plates, dragging trailers loaded with even more dented and battered vehicles eastwards, where labour costs are low enough to make a repair profitable.

“You could go faster, you know,” Ethan remarks as he languidly gazes out of the window. “There’s no speed limit. Not anymore. But I remember taking the transit route to Berlin in the Eighties. 100 kmh all the way, and the motorway dotted with all those candy colored two-stroke cars, and every few kilometers police cars would lurk in the bushes. If you exceeded 100, even a little, the VoPos fined you faster than you could say ‘fuck Lenin’. Westmarks, of course...”

“Is there any point to this?” Giles snaps.

When Ethan slowly turns his head to regard thim, Giles realizes that there is, indeed, a point to Ethan’s chit-chat. Has to be. Ethan is sending him coded messages. Only he seems to be using a different morse code than Giles, because for the life of him, Giles can’t figure it out. Not without some kind of ENIGMA-machine...

The question is, does he really want to know?

Outside, the first few snowflakes dance in the BMW’s headlights.

*

For a few minutes Ethan allows himself to be entranced by the snowflakes that trundle from the night-time sky. It’s been a long time since he’s seen any. Quite likely they’re the last he’ll ever see. 

They’re only water, albeit frozen around a core of dust, a heart of dirt, if you will. Little crystaline stars, some more symmetrical than others. Similar but not identical. Each shaped by its own individual history of atmospheric conditions. No two alike.

One of the more endearing qualities of snowflakes is the fact that it’s impossible to predict their exact path. Every gust of wind changes their route, hurls them upwards or sideways, to and fro. Chaos resplendent. It’s true, gravity always wins in the end, dragging them down, but until then they dance.

By the time the car’s headlights hit them, they are already at destiny’s mercy, fated to land on the sludge slick road or maybe on the windscreen, where the windscreen wipers will crush their fragile structure. Eventually, they will melt until nothing remains but a sheet of cold water on a pane of glass, their uniqueness lost forever.

Ethan swallows. His mouth feels dry. Fear, he diagnoses absently.

Time is running out and he hasn’t even touched on the big question. But the longer Rupert’s silence lasts, the more certain Ethan becomes that this roadtrip has been doomed from the start.

Some things cannot be mended.

There’s no way in hell that Rupert will vouch for him. Why should he? Not for old times’ sake, that much is certain. Whatever nostalgia and residual attraction Giles may have felt towards him, Ethan knows he pissed it away back in Sunnydale, when he dropped a little magic pellet into Rupert’s beer.

Why did it seem like a good idea at the time?

Because even after two decades, Ethan still couldn’t shirk that tiny, niggling stab of disappontment every time he woke up next to his latest one-night-stand.

No one should have that much power over him and expect to go unpunished.

His neck tingles. Ethan turns away from the window. Rupert is staring at him. No heat flickers in his gaze. Not even a little warmth. It’s the kind of stare a Watcher gives his enemy: cold and calculating.

A cold, lonely puritan, that’s what Ripper has turned into.

Ethan dredges up a smile. What else can he do?

*

Giles used to love that smile, the mischievous curve of that wicked mouth. It used to make him hard. Once upon a time.

Actually, it still does. But now it also raises his hackles.

Ethan is up to something. But Ethan being Ethan he can’t just spill the beans. Oh no, it has to be the roundabout way, the scenic route....

“I met a bunch of bona fide spies once,” Ethan says, proving him right. “East Berlin, late Seventies. Straight out of a John Le Carré novel. MI6, wanted me to turn a KGB officer. For Queen and country.” His smile looks strained. “My finest hour.”

Before Giles can voice his disbelief, Ethan raises his hands. “It’s possible I was swayed by their offer to pay handsomely, but still, you could say I saved the world from communism.”

“Single-handedly, no doubt,” Giles mutters absently. He has no interest in Ethan’s fabrications. Besides, the traffic requires his attention.

“Of course.” Ethan affects a small bow. “And how fares the formidable Miss Summers? I trust our little dreamspace stroll gave her what she needed to defeat the dark witch and save her friend?”

Finally, here it comes. It sounds like a change of subject, but Giles senses that it isn’t. “She is well, thank you.” He steps on the gas to overtake a coach full of celebrating football players. The BMW lurches forward with alacrity.

“Ah, I’m gratified to hear it.”

Giles listens for a false note. Detects none, but that doesn’t mean a thing. Ethan has always been an accomplished liar. He’ll never change his spots. His only reason for helping Buffy was his own gain. And now he’s here to name his price and cash in on his good deed.

Alright, Giles will hear Ethan out. Doesn’t mean he’ll make it easy for him.

“Well?” Ethan prompts.

“Well, what?” Giles stays in the left lane. Overtakes an Audi Quattro. The speedo needle passes 160.

Maybe it’s true: the faster you move, the more your higher brain functions shut down and hand over the reins to older, more primitive lobes where reflexes are sharp because good or evil and right or wrong don’t matter.

Giles knows he should slow down, after all the road is slippery and visibility is getting poorer by the minute, but all he can think is that he wants to go faster and faster...

“Come now, Ripper, aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not dead? How I cheated death?”

“Actually, no. But since you’re obviously dying to tell me...” Giles keeps his eyes on the road. Overtakes a black Mercedes with a CD sticker. Watches the car’s headlights disappear in the rearview mirror. “So tell me, Ethan, how did you cheat death?” 

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Faster.

“I didn’t. Cheat. Death.” The words come out like pistol shots. “Your Slayer was too late. I took a bullet to the head. I died Rupert. Died and woke up in hell.” 

Giles would have sworn that his hands are rock-steady, but with a violent swerve the BMW proves him wrong.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Slow motion is for movies, not for real life accidents. When the car skids to the right it happens faster than fast, leaving Ethan no time to congratulate himself on the crack in Rupert’s composure.   
He catches a glimpse of Giles's frantic attempts to regain control. At the same time, Ethan senses a sudden surge of power. Pure chaos. Wound up tight like a clockwork, but unraveling fast.   
Bugger.   
Spinning madly, the BMW skates over the slippery mix of ice, rain and sleet, reducing its passengers to helpless crash-test dummies. Its headlights hack and slice through the dark, outlining the crash barrier a fraction of a second before the heavy limousine punches through it.   
The loud bang and explosive chime of safety glass turning opaque register later, almost like an afterthought. The car tilts. For a fleeting, spine-tingling moment gravity relinquishes its power over the car and the two men inside. Chaos takes a deep breath...   
...Ethan gropes around for the lashing tendrils of power...   
...and then the car nosedives. It hits the ground with devastating force, bounces, rolls over, and over and over, tossing its two passengers around like rag dolls in a tumble dryer... Dark shapes leap at the gaping hole where the windshield used to be. Ethan jerks up his arms to shield his face. Hears the staccato of splintering timber, feels a small stab of pain as the bright spark of a nearby life force is snuffed out, and then...  
Silence.

*

Giles wakes to a crushing weight on his chest and an overwhelming graveyard stench. He gropes around in the dark, until his fingers touch something: soft fabric. The satin lining of a coffin lid. Dear God! For a second, Giles is trapped in his worst, guilt-ridden nightmare: like Buffy he got buried alive, and now he’s forced to claw his way out of his own dank and moldy grave; or worse: he died in the crash and now he’s coming back wrong and hideous...

Then the realization sinks in: the limp fabric that’s smothering him is the deflated airbag. He’s still in the car. Still alive. But upside down.

The engine is dead, making tiny clicking sounds as it cools in the frigid air, but on the driver’s side the headlight is still working. Diffuse light spills into the car, enough to make out a few details.

Not a single straight line or smooth curve remains. Everything is crooked and jagged. Down is up and up is down, and there's something wrong with the proportions of the car. It seems smaller, more cramped. Like it shrank in the wash. A total write-off.

An icy chill crawls into the wreck.

The windshield is gone, exploded into small blunt shards, that twinkle all over the floor and in every nook and cranny. Through the deformed opening a dark mass of damp earth and rotting leaves has spilled into the car, with branches protruding in all directions. A few more inches and one of the jagged sticks would have stabbed him. At least now he knows where the stench of decay is coming from. Wet earth, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Then why can’t he stop shaking?

When the car came to rest on its roof, it left Giles slumped in an untidy heap: half braced against the former roof, half propped against the dented door. Legs still caught somewhere between seat-belt and steering wheel. A vague fear of internal injuries or possible damage to his spine keeps him from shifting to a more comfortable position.

Instead, Giles fumbles around for his glasses. Did he even wear them? He can’t remember. 

He feels lightheaded. His heart is hammering like mad, and his hands are trembling. It’s ridiculous! For more than twenty years he’s fought all sorts of demons; he’s faced countless apocalypses without losing his nerve; got tortured by one of the most vicious vampires ever to walk the earth, without breaking. And now a bloody car accident sends him into shock?

Sod it!

Giles takes a deep breath. And another one. Takes control. Of his breathing, his erratic pulse, and the overpowering urge to get out of the wreck as fast as possible.

Control is the key to survival. Mind over matter. With the help of magic, it only takes a few seconds until his hands are steady. As the symptoms of shock recede, pain spreads through his body. His chest feels as though he got kicked by a horse. And his right leg is throbbing. He doesn’t fight it, yet. He needs the information the pain can provide.

Giles starts at the top: methodically turns his head, left and right, tries different angles. No pain. Just discomfort. He goes through the quick Xander routine: moves his arms, hands, fingers – all present and accounted for – his legs, feet...

He bites his lips as pain stabs through his right foot. The intensity of the pain leaves little room for doubt: his ankle is broken.

Bugger.

Fortunately, pain is something he has learnt to deal with, ever since Angelus broke his fingers, one by one. Mind over matter. Giles pushes the pain back until it heels. All that remains is a vague discomfort.

Why is his shirt soaking wet? Is that blood? Nothing so dramatic. Just coffee. Right. The coffee he didn’t drink. The coffee Ethan gave him.

Ethan!

The memory is like a slap in the face.

Giles twists and bends to look at the passenger seat, half expecting the old rogue to say: ‘I was wondering when you’d remember me.’

But Ethan is silent, a limp motionless shape with unsettling angles. More like a puppet entangled in its strings than like a breathing human being. It’s too dark to make out blood. Too dark to see if Ethan’s chest is rising and falling.

Giles looks away, stares at his hands. They’re shaking again. His chest feels like it is being crushed. Breathing has never been harder.

Maybe that's why Giles doesn't call out for help, when car doors are slammed shut within earshot, thirty or forty meters away.

Voices ring through the night, voices that speak English...

“See, I told you it would work.” A male voice, young and eager. Speaking with an American accent.

“SILENCE, YOU WORM!” a second voice hisses. Clearly, the speaker’s tongue is not meant to utter human words. The sheer sound is enough to make Giles’s skin crawl, carrying images of wriggling worms and putrid flesh. “MAKE SURE HE’S DEAD.”

“Yes, Master,” the first speaker grovels.

“AND BRING ME THE BRIEFCASE.”

“Yes, Master.”

Frozen earth crunches softly under approaching feet.

Giles can’t remember ever feeling less in control.  
...

Who are these people? And what do they want, besides seeing one - or both - of them dead?

It’s probably grossly unfair, because Giles helped avert many evil plots that didn’t involve Ethan, but all his instincts insist that this entire mess is Ethan’s fault. Has to be. Occupational hazard. With a chaos mage’s propensity for stirring up trouble, Ethan must be accumulating enemies like other people collect beer mats or Mesopotamian fertility symbols.

But there’s no point in looking at Ethan for answers. Ethan, who still hasn’t moved. Who hasn’t made a sound. Damn him! Giles stifles the urge to shake his erstwhile friend until his teeth rattle.

Giles knows he has only a few seconds, until the demon’s henchmen search the car and find him still alive. Even without a broken ankle, he’d never make it out of the wreck in time. And even if he could, Ethan still owes him some answers...

Given time and a lit candle to induce a deeper trance, a practiced sorcerer can easily slow down his pulse to a single beat per minute. He can control his breathing so that a mirror placed on his lips won’t mist over. He can even ignore pinpricks without flinching. 

Giles has no candle, and very little time, but his heartbeat is already under his control: the same control that allowed him to push the pain into the background. All he has to do is go ... a little bit... deeper...

Da-dum, his heart beats. Pauses. Again: Da-dum. Pauses.

When the bright glare of a flashlight darts through the wreck and comes to rest on his face, Giles does not even bat an eyelid. He does not flinch when a warm, sweaty hand grabs his wrist. Fingertips flutter over his skin, nervous and unskilled. They rest briefly on the hollow between tendons and bone, where the pulse should be, then touch Giles’s throat, to double-check, before they quickly pull back.

"No pulse," the voice with the American accent pronounces. A Californian accent, if Giles is not mistaken.

Da-dum.

“Damn! I think I just ruined my shoes,” a third voice speaks up. Female. Also American. East coast. “Try the oculocephalic reflex.” Educated.

“Huh?”

An exasperated sigh. “Shake his head. Quickly. See if his pupils move.”

Giles is ready for the doll’s head treatment, but it seems the young man is reluctant to touch him again. Instead, he aims his flashlight directly at Giles’s eyes. A white glare stabs into Giles’s brain, blotting out the image of Ethan’s dark, motionless form.

Giles drifts down another layer. Deeper into the trance, where voices sound hollow and strangely distorted, as though travelling through a long dark tunnel...

Snowflakes float into the wreck. Some land on his skin. Gentle specks of coldness. Soothing...

“Nope. No ocu-whatsit reflex. Dead as a dodo.”

“I AM GROWING TIRED OF YOUR DAWDLING!” Judging by the dircection of the voice, its obscene owner must be standing right next to the women.

The young man jerks back, banging his head in his haste. “I—I’m sorry, Master. Forgive me.” Naked terror taints his voice.

In Giles’s chest, his heart beats. Da-dum. Just once.

“FIND THE BRIEFCASE.”

“Step aside, Michael.” The female sounds almost bored. She snaps her fingers and issues a command. Power lies in her words. Magic.

The wreck shudders. Metal creaks and groans as though to protest. The sounds are strangely distorted, but it’s not difficult to guess what is happening. The lid of the trunk is torn from its hinges and hurled away like a jagged, dented frisbee. Sounds of hammering follow, as the upside-down trunk is patted down for a secret storage place.

“Well? Come on, I’m freezing my butt off.”

“It’s not in the trunk.”

The voices, too, sound faint, drawn out. Like a record played at half speed. Giles realizes he’s still sinking. With these deep trances there’s always the danger that the sorcerer’s mind is cast adrift and that the thin silver cord that ties his mind to his body will fray and eventually snap, leaving his body an empty, mindless husk.

He tries to fight it. Tries to concentrate and hold on to the sounds. To use them as a lifeline.

Giles hears the woman rummage around in her purse. “Check the backseat. And Michael? Hurry up! Don’t keep the Master waiting.” A moment later a cigarette lighter’s metallic chink-chink and a greedy intake of breath indicate that she’s found what she was looking for.

Da-dum.

Another heartbeat. And a slow steady intake of breath. As air is softly drawn into every recess of his lungs, a potpourri of molecules travels through Giles’s nose and translates into a pastiche of distinctive smells: damp leaves, spilled coffee, blood, the young man’s cold sweat, cigarette smoke, the woman’s expensive, slightly peppery perfume, and the sharp tang of sulphur.

Meanwhile, a hand reaches through the trashed backseat window into the car and gropes around among the glass shards and Giles’s overnight bag.

In the distance, several cars pass the crash site, without stopping. A glamour, cast by the demon? Indifference?

“Got it!”

The briefcase is yanked through the window. 100.000 Euros in cash, and a loaded gun. Gone.

“About time. Give me the case. I’ll open it in the car.”

Da-dum.

Luckily, this isn't one of those frightful American movies where cars explode at the drop of a hat. As soon as the the demon and its followers are gone, Giles will dig out his new cell phone, the one Andrew insisted on, and call 112.

“Oh, and, Michael?” A half-smoked cigarette is flicked into Giles’s field of vision. It lands on his legs and slowly starts to smolder its way through the wool of his suit.

“Yes?”

“Torch the car.”

* * *

"Uh, what about the hitch-hiker?"

"What about him?" With a jarring laugh, that reminds Giles of a cracked bell, the woman departs.

Da-dum.

Giles listens to the soft crunch-crunch of her feet on the frozen ground and forces his heartbeat to fall into step.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

Giles exhales. Slowly. Silently. Purges the used air from his lungs. Draws in fresh oxygen. Tries to ignore his throbbing ankle.

Meanwhile, his thoughts are racing.

Where is the Master? Is he with the woman? Only one pair of feet can be heard moving away, on the other hand the sulphuric smell is gone now.

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.

The young man, Michael, is circling the car’s carcass, presumably to look for a jerry can or the tank cover. The whiteness of his sneakers makes his movements easy to track. The question is: how thorough an arsonist is he? 

And once he’s started the fire, will he stay and gloat? Or walk away, too much of a coward to face the consequences of his actions? Giles is willing to bet on the latter.

Picking a moment when both sneakers are facing away from him, Giles snatches up the woman’s glowing cigarette butt and stubs it out in a heap of moist earth.

How much time, once the fire starts? A minute? Less than that. The flames will follow gravity and literally pour into the car. And then? The car may not explode, but it will definitely burn, hot and fast. In fact, thanks to the plastic and fabric fittings the inside will burn faster than the rest, and spike the black smoke with poisonous fumes.

Elemental magic has never been Giles’s strong suit, but he knows he can hold the flames at arm’s length – for a minute, possibly two. Just long enough to crawl out of the car. If he concentrates on nothing else.

But. What about Ethan?

Damn him!

Damn him for waltzing back into Giles’s life like this, and for all that stupid talk about spies and defectors, and life and death, and for making him drive the sodding car into the sodding ditch! Damn him for not moving! Damn him.

Only a few minutes have passed since the crash, but to Giles it feels like he’s stared at Ethan’s sagging, motionless form for a lifetime. Long enough to acknowledge that there’s no way in hell he’d leave Ethan behind. Not if there’s a chance that the old fool is still alive.

Maybe, if they were still fighting on different sides, soldiers, facing each other across a metaphorical battle field... 

No, not even then. Not anymore. The mere thought of Ethan being consumed by flames is a painful knot in his gut. From that pain, a telepathic shout bursts free:

\- _Ethan!_ -

Outside, liquid gurgles and splashes. Apparently, Michael found a way to force open the tank cover.

If only Giles had a fraction of Willow’s or even Ethan’s raw magical power; he’d simply snap Ethan’s seatbelt with a flick of his wrist and levitate them both out of the wreck. In fact, with Willow’s kind of power he could teleport them both to safety.

The distinctive stench of benzene wafts into the wreck. Michael can be heard repeatedly thumbing a cheap disposable cigarette lighter.

\- _Goddammit, ETHAN. Wake up!_ -

A soft groan cuts through Giles’s urgency. “Rupert?”

The lighter sounds cease.

Movement, and then Ethan’s voice, unsteady but lucid: “Ouw! What the hell... did you... put in my drink?”

“Fuck!” Self-loathing seeps from Michael’s voice, but he redoubles his efforts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Three more tries, and with an almost gentle whoosh the petrol catches fire. Heat springs up like a hungry beast and tentacle-like flames snake towards the wreck.

And then, of course, like in a big budget action movie, everything happens at once:

The flames yap and snap at Giles’s hastily erected barrier, like greedy wolves testing the strength of a cage. 

\- _Ethan, I need your power. All of it. Right now!_ -

\- _Why Rupert, I thought you’d never ask..._ -

Giles reaches out, with his hand and mind, finds Ethan’s hand open and ready for his, and encounters a well of power: rich and leathery and a little smoky, like a well-matured Chardonnay....

... and while their hands glow green...

... Michael’s white sneakers break into a run, away from the wreck and towards the other car...

... where a car door slams shut, and ..

... for a split second, Giles is in two places at once, glimpsing well-manicured fingers caress the leather of his briefcase before they home in on the the two brass spring locks....

... Ethan’s grip on Giles’s hand tightens, and...

... the two locks spring open, and the briefcase’s lid is lifted to reveal bundles of bank notes, a loaded gun, and - oh, yes – a little surprise from Andrew:

A great ball of fire erupts from the suitcase, followed closely by a shockwave of heat and a loud blast, as the car explodes in a magical fireball of epic proportions, a fire that paints the night blood-red...

... power surges...

.. a young man’s body is hurled into the air and slammed against the trunk of a tree...

... enough power for Giles to...

Teleport.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

One instant Ethan is overwhelmed by terrifying heat and noise and the ecstatic sensation of touching Rupert, just like old times, of spilling all his power into him; the next instant the connection is severed: Giles’s hand is yanked out of his grasp, and Ethan is falling into a black bottomless pit.

Judging by the inarticulate holler echoing his own, Rupert, too, is falling.

Without thinking, Ethan tries to levitate. The backlash nearly stops his ticker. He’s dry. Tapped out. Gave it all to Rupert. Fuck!

Dark shapes lash out at him. Tear at his suit. Arms? Tentacles? Arms flailing, Ethan gropes around in the dark, desperate for something - or someone - to cling to.

Misses. Misses again, then hits the ground with so much force, it steals his breath away.

So much for the bottomless pit.

For several seconds Ethan is too stunned to do anything, except lie still on his back, and gape at the snowflakes that drift from the ink-black sky. It seems his body no longer remembers how to breathe.

It does, however, remember how to ache with want. Pouring his magical powers into Rupert has made him hard. Ethan notes, not without amusement, that his hard-on is remarkably unimpressed by his current adverse circumstances. Brilliant timing.

Oh well, at least his heart’s still beating. Now, if only he could get a little air... Pretty please?

Finally, with a convulsive shudder, his breathing kicks in again. As he’s gasping for air, everything else returns as well: touch, hearing, pain. More importantly, the ability to make sense of what his senses tell him. Enough moonlight trickles from the sky, for Ethan to make out a host of bare, twisted trees. The dark tentacles? Branches, that’s all. The only reason why he didn’t break his neck: he landed on a thick, soggy bed of leaves. Several years worth of rotting, dank-smelling foliage.

Blast! This is so like Rupert. Rematerialising them fifteen feet above the ground in the middle of a fucking forest. Once a shitty driver, always a shitty driver.

Well, lying on the ground soaking up the cold and wetness while tiny pinpricks of ice melt on his face is not going to improve his health. Stifling a sigh, Ethan forces himself to sit up. His muscles and joints protest. Evidently, he’s too old for this shit.

Behind him, leaves rustle. Ethan turns to see Giles struggle into an upright position. He’s deathly pale. His nose is bleeding, lending him a savage appearance.

“Never a dull moment, mate. Out of the frying pan and into the freezer. Any particular reason why you picked a spot fifteen feet above the ground?”

“If you’d rather burn to a crisp, please feel free to teleport back to the car.” Rupert’s voice is cold, distant. “In fact, feel free to teleport anywhere you like.”

“What? And miss all the fun of being stuck with you? In the middle of nowhere? Not for all the dope in Holland.”

Rupert’s only reply is a furious glare.

“That’s the spirit.” Ethan puts on a cheeful smile. “Always look on the bright side. Better cold than dead. Mind you, old boy, you don’t look very alive to me.”

Giles doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation. “Unless you have something productive or helpful to offer, would you kindly shut up?” He leans forward to gingerly probe his ankle with his fingertips. Grimaces.  
Ethan gestures vaguely at Rupert’s face. “Just so you know: you’re bleeding.”  
“Oh, uh, I am?” Giles wipes his nose and shrugs. “Just so you know: so are you.” His voice is flat, almost indifferent. Almost.  
Eyebrows raised, Ethan mirrors Rupert’s movements; regards the smear on the back of his hand. His blood looks black in the monochrome moonlight. Ethan stifles a sigh.  
The two sorcerers stare at each other, wary, yet also battle-weary and just a little broken, a host of unspoken words between them, and for a second, Ethan is overcome by so much want, it chokes him. 

He knows a million ways to rub Rupert the wrong way, but not a single way to make things right. Chaos mages throw spanners into other people’s works, they are not meant to mend bridges, fill in trenches, or hand out olive branches. Even now, part of Ethan is contemplating ways to make Giles lose his composure. He’s itching to see if he still can. Old habits die hard.

The ground is too cold and wet to sit on, but Ethan is reluctant to destroy the unexpected symmetry. He considers enquiring after Rupert’s foot, but settles for an indignant “So. What the hell just happened?”

Giles does not answer. He quickly pats all his pockets, before searching them more methodically. In the end he squints up at the sky, then frowns at the surrounding trees.

“Well?”

“It seems my cell phone is currently being, uh, cremated in the car. You wouldn’t happen to...?”

“Sorry, mate.” Ethan lies.

Giles mutters something under his breath, too softly for Ethan to hear, but easy to read off his lips: “Bugger!”

*

Actually, ‘Bugger’ is putting it mildly. Giles just watched a small fortune go up in smoke, his shirt is soaking wet, his glasses are gone, his ankle is throbbing, and he’s freezing his arse off. If holds his breath to listen, all he can make out over the rapid hammering of his heart, is Ethan’s uneven breathing and the rustle of leaves whenever one of them shifts a little. Beyond that? Not a bloody sound. Not even the soothing hum of cars travelling in the distance. Great. No autobahn, no phone. While he’s sitting here, God knows where, incommunicado, counting his woes, Abramelin’s grimoire will go to another buyer.

But the crowning glory of today’s complete and utter disaster? The one thing Giles promised himself he’d never do again: Working magic with Ethan.

The last time another practitioner of magic poured massive amounts of power into him, Giles was preparing to stop Willow from destroying the world. A heady experience, but one he mastered. But Ethan’s magic is different than the coven’s. Granted, not as wild and reckless as it used to be, but still a far cry from safe and sound. Dear Lord, just thinking about it causes a tingle to travel down his spine, makes his hands twitch with the urge to touch and—

Giles clenches his fists.

“Come now, Rupert. Don’t look so glum. Look on the bright side. At least you’ve got company.”

Giles’s niggling suspicion that Ethan has him right where he wants him sharpens into certainty. “You’re not company.”

Ethan slaps a hand over his heart, as though hit by a bullet. “Ouch, you kill me!”

“Stop it. I have no patience for your games!”

“Ease up, Rupert, it’s not like you’re in any real danger. What do you think will happen when your valiant Slayer finds out her watcher is AWOL?”

Giles keeps his voice even. “Buffy will come for me.” And walk right into a trap?

“Exactly. We both know she’ll launch a full-scale rescue mission. Helicopters, flamethrowers, witches. The whole goddamn cavalry. Trust me; you’ll be rid of me before you know it.”

A shiver races down Giles’s spine. A chill that has nothing to do with the cold and everything with the trace of bitter finality that is skulking underneath Ethan’s easy smirk. A hint of despair that Giles never sensed from Ethan before. Giles squints, wishing he hadn’t lost his spectacles in the crash. The dark is playing tricks with his eyesight, making Ethan’s expression even harder to read than usual.

What does Ethan want with him?

Abruptly, Ethan scrambles to his feet. “As much as I hate to break up this cosy little palaver, it’s too cold to just sit around on our arses. We better get a move on before our pricks turn into friggin’ popsicles.”

Move? Not bloody likely. Giles doesn’t even try. Just shakes his head.

Stomping his feet, Ethan rubs his hands and breathes on them. “What? Got a hurtie? Want me to kiss it better?”

“Shut up!”

“Come now, Rupert, you white hats are supposed to scoff at scrapes and bruises.” 

“I broke my foot. In the crash.”

“Oh?” The stomping stops. “My my, you really are buggered, mate.” And then: “Well, don’t look at me for first aid. I’m a chaos worshipper, not a doctor. One of the bad guys, remember?”

As if Giles could ever forget. Yet, he also remembers Ethan’s profound knowledge of herbs and drugs and his intuitive understanding of the human body. Not to mention the deftness of his hands. Squandered gifts, always used for self-gratification or gain. A bloody waste of talent.

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t turned up,” Giles lashes out.

“Ah yes, driving too fast and crashing the car was all my doing. And whoever set your car on fire had fuckall to do with you or your precious Council. Right. And I’m the archbishop of Canterbury.”

“You turn up, out of nowhere. Alive, when I know you to be dead! What am I supposed to think?”

“How about: ‘Welcome back’?”

Giles stifles a sigh. Tries to sound firm. In control. Just because Ethan has nothing to do with the people who torched the car, doesn’t mean that he isn’t up to one of his old tricks. “Look, Ethan—“

“No! You look, Rupert!” One brisk stride brings Ethan into striking range. Giles braces himself for a vicious kick, because, like him, Ethan is not above kicking someone who is already down. But the blow never comes. Instead, Ethan crouches beside him, close enough for the warmth of his breath to mingle with Giles’s. “I never made you do anything you didn’t want. When are you going to stop blaming me for each and every screw-up in your life?”

“For God’s sake, Ethan, this isn’t about Randall and the others!”

“You’re right. It’s not. Only, it always is, isn’t it? It’s always about Randall. And Deirdre. And the others. You think I don’t know my part in their deaths? We were young. We played with fire. We got burnt. Deal with it!” With that, Ethan stands up again.

Maybe it’s just as well that Giles can’t stand up as well, because white-hot rage washes over him, momentarily dispelling the mind-numbing cold. “You!” he spits, hands balled into fists. “You’re not the one who got burnt.”

“No? Well think again, mate.” Ethan’s voice sounds jagged. “Where do you think I’ve been, since that bullet smashed into my brain and dropped me dead?”

Giles flinches. Around them, skeletal trees glower in silent reproach. Snowflakes continue to trundle down. With all this yelling they must have woken every goddamn living thing in the whole bloody forest, but all Giles can hear is the hammering of his heart and Ethan’s agitated breathing. 

Is it possible that Ethan is saying the truth? The image of Ethan writhing and screaming as hellish flames gnaw at his flesh tastes like bile in Giles’s mouth.

Of course he’s glad that Ethan is no longer dead. However, he also knows that hell is not exactly a place renowned for letting go of its prey. What kind of deal did Ethan make? Was he forced to claw his way out of his own grave, like Buffy, reanimated by dark necromancy? Who’d be interested in bringing him back into play? Janus? The First? A dark coven?

“Why are you here, Ethan?”

“To see you.”

Even though the words ring true, this is not the answer Giles is looking for. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

***

The silence lengthens, transmuting into a ceasefire. With the heat of their argument gone, the cold inches back towards them like a wolf on the prowl.

Ethan frowns at the sky that is mottled with snow. “I spy with my little eyes, something that starts with s.”

Giles sighs, but decides to accept the change of subject. “Snow?”

“Exactly. We need to find shelter.”

Giles struggles to keep his teeth from chattering but fails abysmally. “But of course! B-brilliant thinking. Why didn’t I think of that?”

With one languid flick of his wrist, Ethan brushes his sarcasm aside. “Come on. Surely a couple of old mystics like us can whip some sort of divination spell together.” He tilts his head, as though to listen for a distant sound that only he can hear. “There’s magic here. I can taste it in the wind. Can’t you feel it?”

Giles shakes his head. The mind-numbing cold and the pain in his ankle leave very little room for anything else.

“Something’s asleep here. Powerful, but wild,” Ethan muses, longing in his voice. “Old as grit. Probably slept through the whole German division and reunification saga without even a blink. I suppose I could siphon off some of its power, without waking it. But then you’ll have to take over. Take control.”

“What makes you think I can control it?”

“Oh, come on! You’ve always been better at holding spells together,” Ethan reminds him, exuding a confidence Giles finds hard to share.

Casting a delicate spell after the thorough power drain of their earlier teleportation spell is like attempting to fold an origami lion out of cigarette skins right after busting one’s knuckles in a boxing match. With only wild magic to draw on? Giles shakes his head. It can’t be done. “Not without some kind of ritual.”

“So?”

“Need I remind you that a ritual requires a variety of specific objects? Like chalk, candles and other ingredients. Consecrated objects. Not to mention a focus of some sort. I don’t see a magic shop here. Do you?” The words come out breathless and choppy.

“Then invent a ritual that works without those things!” Ethan snaps. “Preferably, before we both turn into ice sculptures.”

“That’s easy for you to say!”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Ethan shrugs out of his coat. Two long strides, and he is squatting at Giles’s side to drape the garment round Giles’s shoulders. “Listen to yourself! You sound like an old granny. Old Granny Grunt.”

“You do realize, that calling me an old granny is scarcely suited to endear yourself to me,” Giles grouses, pretending that buttoning the coat requires his utmost attention.

It’s not a proper winter coat, obviously chosen for its soft material and fashionable cut rather than for warmth, but Ethan’s lingering body heat makes up for it. Giles knows he ought to express his gratitude, but the faint traces of masculine musk that lurk underneath the hint of expensive cologne make Ethan’s kindness hard to bear. Tongue-tied, Giles forces himself to meet Ethan’s gaze, mentally kicking himself for his cowardice.

For two, maybe three heartbeats, they are both silent, then Ethan flaps up Giles’s collar and steps back. “Think nothing of it. As you full well know, I’m merely looking out for my own interest.”

Scowling at the tightness in his chest, Giles tries to focus on the problem at hand. Improvisation isn’t his strong suit, but for seven years he’s watched Buffy stab vampires with pool cues, pencils, fences and sign posts in lieu of stakes; he’s watched her use rocket launchers and holy water, heard her order the buffybot into battle as a decoy; he’s even seen her turn a notorious vampire into an ally. These seven years have taught him one thing: in order to survive Slayers have to work with what fate puts their way. Surely, the same goes for Watchers.

Giles holds out his hand. “Empty your pockets.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ethan affects a snappy salute, but his voice sounds strained. “Right away, Sir.”

Methodically turning his pockets inside out, as though to say, ‘lookie here, no secrets’, Ethan surrenders a pack of smokes, matches, and a Swiss pocket knife. No wallet, only a handful of loose change, ten coins in all. Precious little to work with. Somehow, Giles expected Ethan to carry amulets, charms, and potions, or at the very least some representation of his god.

“Check the coat. Breast pocket.”

Giles finds not a small Janus idol but a flask. It resembles the one Spike always drank from on patrol, during that awful summer, when Buffy was dead and buried and solace resided in the dregs of bourbon bottles…. Giles unscrews the cap: Whiskey fumes, slightly peaty. Excellent quality. Miles from the bottom shelf booze Spike used to drown his grief in.

Giles sets the flask on the ground, then rifles through the remaining coat pockets. He finds neither wallet nor ID. But something else: a pack of condoms. Unopened.

Giles’s gaze darts from the pack on his palm to the shivering chaos mage, who is stomping his feet in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay. 

“Oh, that.” Ethan shrugs. “Hope springs eternal.”

Giles swallows. The utter resignation in Ethan’s voice is like a stab through the heart.

It would be easy to say something cutting. Too easy. Without comment, Giles tosses the condoms on the small pile of Ethan’s possessions and proceeds to add the contents of his own pockets: a handkerchief, a Swiss pocket knife, and his wallet. No condoms, and how sad is that?

Ethan is right. For years, the memory of the sleepwalker has been like a black djinn spilling from its cursed bottle at every conceivable opportunity. It loomed behind him as he studied for his exams; it kept him in line, whenever he felt like straying from the narrow path mapped out for him.

Well, Giles is sick of it! Sick of letting feelings of guilt hound him down a path he willingly follows anyway; sick of driving Ethan away, again and again; sick of letting the past dictate what he can and can’t do! Frowning, he studies the small pile of objects in front of him. Divination rituals are lengthy affairs that require a peace of body and spirit that Giles feels unable to muster. No, a divination spell is out of the question. But waking something that’s already nearby, with Ethan’s whiskey acting as an offering, now, that might just work. There’s no telling what kind of entity Ethan is sensing, but most likely it’s an earth or forest spirit. These creatures aren’t exactly keen on humankind, but some have developed a palate for human spirits.

He has no chalks to draw a circle. Not that the uneven ground lends itself to geometric drawings. Still, it’s unwise to call forth unknown powers without some kind of protection. What other resources…? His roaming gaze comes to rest on Ethan’s scarf. “I’ll need your scarf. Your belt and tie, too.”

Ethan hands them over.

Giles calculates their combined length. “And your socks.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ethan toes off his shoes.

Ethan’s socks are black, and so soft, they have to be brand-new. Even so, Giles can barely tie them together. Maybe it’s because he’s shivering in spite of the warmth of Ethan’s coat. He hands the items back along with his own belt. “Here, you do it. Tie a rope. It doesn’t need to be strong; just long enough to form a circle that will hold us both.”

“A protective circle?” Ethan blurts out. “From you? But you detest all forms of summoning magic!”

“I do.” Giles is glad that his voice is steady. “That’s why we are going to be careful.”

“We?”

“I wouldn’t even dream of trying this without you.”

It’s too dark to see Ethan’s face, but Giles can hear his sharp intake of breath.

A moment later, Ethan is crouching beside him. “So, what kind of offering do you have in mind?” Now that Ethan is close enough for Giles to be able to read his expression, his unfathomable half-smile is back. “Blood?”

He picks up Giles’s pocket knife and snaps it open to study the length of blade. ‘Mine’s longer,’ his arched eyebrow seems to say. 

Giles sighs. ‘Grow up, will you?’ Yet, at the same time he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I was thinking of trying the whiskey first.”

With a radiant smile, Ethan snaps the knife shut. “As you wish.”

* * *

In spite of the mind-numbing cold, Ethan can’t stop grinning.

Performing a summoning ritual without the props, in the freezing cold, with most of their magic spent on the teleportation spell that dumped them in the middle of bloody nowhere, is insane, but it is Ethan’s kind of insane. Summoning Eyghon felt similar: like embarking on a journey to fabled shores on a ship barely seaworthy; both exhilarating and somewhat slightly mad. Only, this is where the similarities end. This is not a rollercoaster ride into danger for the sheer spite of it; not an attempt to keep an angry, rebellious Watcher-to-be at his side by steering him from one thrilling transgression to the next. This is about life and death.

“We need to know who or what we are dealing with,” Giles states.

“I can tell you this much: It’s not demonic. This place would feel different, if Sleeping Beauty were a demon.”

“Not good enough.”

“Your wish is my command.” Ethan closes his eyes and reaches out, touching the trees, the frozen sky and the snowy ground itself with his mind, like a tracker exploring a faint footprint with his fingertips. A quick sweep of their surroundings reveals slopes and chasms, crags and crevices; an inhospitable labyrinth of sharp edges and steep drops, that is dotted with stubborn pine trees and not much else. A hundred yards in either direction and the teleportation spell would have left both of them with broken bones. Trust Giles to take them to a place so remote, not even backpack tourists have left their mark. Even animals seem to shun this place, driven away by the instinctual knowledge that this part of the forest is already taken…

When Ethan opens his eyes again, he finds Giles watching him, his expression wistful.

“Well?”

“Elemental, no doubt about it. And like I said: old as grit.”

“Earth?”

“Down to earth, rock solid, a tad boring. Actually, that sounds an awful lot like someone I used to know." Ethan affects a heavy sigh. "Story of my life: I always run into powerful people who don’t play well with chaos….”

“Ethan!”

“What?”

“A simple ‘yes’, would have been quite enough.”

“A simple yes, then.” Ethan tries on a demure smile, but ends up throwing in a hint of shark, as well.

Giles shakes his head. Nevertheless, a hint of mirth reaches his eyes, causing Ethan’s heart to break into a jitter. For a fleeting second it feels as though nothing on this earth can stop them; as though the crazy impulse to just grab Giles by the collar and kiss him isn’t crazy at all.

The moment slips away too soon. Two heartbeats later they are two miserable old mystics again, desperate to get out of the cold.

Oh well, at least Giles has given him something useful to do. Ethan’s fingers are clumsy from the cold, but he manages to quickly tie the various pieces of clothing into a kind of rope. “Where do you want it?”

“This is as good a place as any.” Giles indicates the spot where he’s sitting.

Ethan has been drawing circles ever since he was thirteen. It’s easier with chalk on wooden floorboards than with an improvised rope on uneven ground, but the principle remains the same. When he’s finished, the circle is a pretty good approximation of round and emitting a soothing hum of power.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch." A faint smile washes over Giles’s features.

“Bah, child’s play.” Ethan shrugs. “Now what, Rupert? We both know that waking the elemental is the easy part. How do you plan on binding it before it grinds us into minced meat?”

Giles gestures at the small pile of objects they’ve gathered. “We cannot even hope to trap an elemental with this. Besides, we’re both low on power. Our only option is to negotiate.”

“Negotiate,” Ethan echoes, without inflection.

“If we can make the elemental believe that we are considerably more powerful than we actually are, we may be able to bargain with it, make it agree to a binding contract. Hopefully, before your protective circle runs out of juice.”

“That’s your plan? Trying to con an elemental?” Ethan’s chuckle turns into a bout of coughing. “Who are you, and what have you done to Rupert Giles?”

“I am quite aware of the irony, thank you very much.”

“And are you aware that elementals can see through illusions? You won’t be able fool it with things that aren’t there.”

“That’s why we’ll merely exaggerate.”

“Exaggerate?”

“I’ll need the trappings of a Magus, of course: Sword, chalice, coin…”

“… and wand. Right. And don’t forget the robe. You’ll definitely need a fancy robe, Gandalf. Not to mention a hat.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re not taking this seriously.” Giles picks up Ethan’s knife. “Here’s our sword.” He taps the blade against Ethan’s silver flask. “Here’s our chalice.”

Ethan blinks, blinks again, then breaks into a smile. “Look at you, Rupert! You’re full of surprises. Here I was, thinking that improvisation isn’t your strong suit.”

A sheepish expression washes over Giles’s features. “Yes, well, I suppose one cannot watch over Buffy for over seven years and not pick up a new trick or two.”

Buffy! For a second or two, Ethan savors the surge of animosity that the name sends through him: heart pumping, blood boiling… It’s an old grudge. Nothing personal. She just happens to be the girl Rupert swore an oath to protect. She also happens to be the girl who berated him whenever they met, and who beat him up with remarkable relish. Okay, so maybe it is slightly personal. 

Even so, Ethan’s dislike of her is lukewarm these days. He’d be a fool not to acknowledge the fact that without the Slayer the earth with all its creature comforts would have turned into a hellish wasteland long ago. And the naughty discoveries in Miss Summers’ dreamspace have given him an unexpected appreciation of her….

“I’ll do the talking,” Giles interrupts his musings, his tone stern, as though bracing himself for a long and tiring argument.

"Be my guest. The less I have to do with Mr. Rockbrain, the better." Ethan would shrug but he's too busy shivering and stomping his feet. “You better let me do the legwork, though. You’ll need all your strength, if you’re going to haggle with an elemental.”

Giles nods, his relief almost palpable.

***

 

After a moment of deliberation Ethan picks up the box of matches, upends its contents into his palm and ties the matches together with a thread yanked from the lining of his waistcoat. “Hello fellas, how do you feel about a promotion?”

Then he starts to whisper to them - with the same sultry voice that he always used to cajole Giles into doing something illicit, like hotwiring a car for a joyride. He whispers words of awakening, one part magic, and nine parts persuasion. Ethan flatters them, strokes – and stokes – their egos, tells the matches what they already know: that the tiniest spark may set whole forests ablaze, but also telling them what they long to hear: that they could have been, no, that they were always meant to be something greater, a wand of dragonbreath, able to turn even rock into molten slag. That’s what they are, a tall proud staff, brimming with destructive power…

Giles listens to him with the guilty-yet-liberating satisfaction of someone who has just decided to give up dieting for good. Maybe it’s true, maybe they belong together, the same way that the two sides of a coin can never be apart.

“Ta-daa! Here’s your magic wand. Careful, Rupert, you’ll have to hold it right here.”  
Giles nods and holds out his left. Ethan’s fingers brush against his, as he presses a long curved staff of polished wood into his hand.

It feels solid and heavy, a lot heavier than a handful of matches, and it seems to crackle with power. It’s only trickster magic, the kind that fairies use, so it won’t last very long, but while it lasts it glows true from within, fuelled by conviction and desire. Hopefully, true enough to fool an elemental.

Giles shakes his head an pushes the thought away. For this to work, he, too, has to forget what he knows. Giles realizes that Ethan is watching him, as though he’s waiting for something. Like a puppy, waiting for a treat.

“Excellent”, he says. “Now the coins.”

Ethan nods and picks up their loose change. Giles watches him, thinking that the metal must be as cold as ice. Still, the coins should be easy to fool. They represent earth's riches, anyway; always remembering deep down in their alloyed hearts where they slept before the forge woke them.

As for the element of air, well, it shouldn’t take long to convince Ethan's pocket knife that it was always meant to be a sword. Coaxing the flask into thinking it was a chalice? Should be just as easy. That's the beauty of the plan: it doesn't require a lot of power, only persuasion. And persuasion is right in Ethan's ballpark.

An alarming numbness is spreading from Giles’s fingers and he can’t stop shivering. Blasted cold! And the pounding in his ankle isn’t helping, either. Unfortunately, there's no point in telling Ethan to hurry. Clearly, he is working as fast as he can.

Besides, Giles has his own preparations to make. He has to push pain and cold into the background and gather every smidgeon of power left to him. When the earth elemental appears, he can’t just look the part of a powerful mage, he has to feel like one…

“I’m done,” Ethan's voice finally worms itself into Giles’s half-trance, softly, so as not to startle him.

“The table?”

Ethan points at the ground, where he has spread out a handkerchief. On it he’s arranged the shimmering gold coins, the chalice-that-once-was-a-flask and the two knives-turned-into-swords.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Giles says. “Help me up.”

Ethan offers his hand. For two or three heartbeats they just hold hands, then Ethan is all business again, hoisting him to his feet and brushing off soggy leaves that stick to Giles’s trousers.

“How do I look?” Giles asks, straightening and clutching his staff like a scepter. For a fleeting moment he’s self-conscious, remembering the purple wizard’s hat and cloak he wore at the opening of the Magic Box. Back then, the look on Buffy’s face said it all: grownups dressing up like wizards? Silly!

“Like one hell of a sorcerer,” Ethan states, smiling, as he steps out of the protective circle towards a small makeshift altar that he has built from stones and branches. With their last remaining match he sets fire to a pile of crumpled cigarettes. While it’s not incense, tobacco smoke carries more flavor than ordinary wood smoke.  
Then he returns to the protective circle.

“Very well. Give me your hands.”

Without hesitation, Ethan places both hands in Giles’s. At once, the soft green glow of shared magic lights up between them.

+++

Ethan runs his thumb over the fingertips of Giles’s left hand and finds them marked by guitar strings. “You’re still playing!” he states.

“Aren’t you?”

“The Initiative weren’t in the habit of handing out pianos to the guinea pigs, or should I say hostiles?”

Giles meets his gaze evenly. “Before that. When was the last time you played?”

“Centuries ago. I don’t remember.” Ethan shrugs, remembering clearly how he incinerated his keyboard with a lightning bolt the day Rupert left.

Giles shakes his head. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“To do magic?” Ethan smiles. Suddenly he's no longer feeling the cold. “Always.”  
Another headshake from Giles, and then a shimmering curtain of power springs up around them, a soft and silky circle, like a razor-thin waterfall defying all laws of nature.

When Giles starts to chants the incantation, Ethan stifles a sigh. He could listen all night to Giles's singing voice, even if his accent leaves a lot to be desired.

“All hands brace for impact,” Ethan quips.

Nothing happens.

“Or not.” Ethan purses his lips.

Giles clears his throat, takes a deep breath, then tries again, carefully enunciating each Middle High German syllable. The effort etches a frown into his features.  
This time the power drain on Ethan is more severe. He can feel his mouth go dry, and he suddenly feels twice as cold.

Nothing happens.

“Maybe the old b-boy needs a t-taste of something stronger,” Ethan chokes out, teeth chattering. Before Giles has a chance to stop him, he steps out of the circle, even though it means breaking their precious connection.

“Wakey, wakey!” One swift slash with the fake sword and blood is dripping from Ethan’s no longer glowing palm, creating a unique Rorschach pattern on the snow. Funny how his blood looks almost black in the moonlight.

A tremor travels through the thin soles of his shoes, almost like a tickle. The ground rumbles.

“S-sorcerer’s blood,” Ethan grins and gropes around for a handkerchief to staunch the blood flow. “Always works a treat.”

"You bloody fool!" Giles grabs him by the collar and yanks him backwards, back into the protective circle. Not a moment too soon.

Where Ethan’s blood touched the earth, the ground practically explodes. Pebbles, fist-sized stones and thick, soggy lumps of half-frozen earth and wet foliage are hurled into the air. A large slab of rock crashes against the energy barrier of Giles’s circle and ricochets away, chipping a noticeable chunk out of the trunk of a nearby tree.

In the midst of this shockwave, a towering, solid mass of earth and stone, vaguely shaped like an enormous bear, bursts from the ground, surrounded by pebbles and lumps of earth that should by rights follow gravity and scatter to the ground. Yet, the debris does not settle. Instead, it swirls and spins around the dark, solid creature in its center, like an asteroid belt gone mad.

The stench of rot and wet earth is overpowering.

Ethan is hit by a wave of nausea, only it is quickly overtaken by panic. The entity they have just woken isn’t just a plain old earth elemental. They’ve woken a ‘Galdrar’, an elemental lord. Infinitely more powerful and apparently pretty pissed off.

Brilliant!

+++

"WHO DARES WAKE ME?" the elemental lord's voice is a low, grinding rumble of boulders rolling over a bed of pebbles. It’s almost impossible to make out individual words, and yet, their meaning is clear.

"We… I am a traveller in need." Giles speaks slowly, aware that earth elementals have no fondness for creatures of hurry who count their life spans in decades rather than centuries.

"YOUR BLOOD IS TAINTED. IMPURE!"

"And yet, a few drops and you came running." Ethan mutters, before Giles has a chance to come up with a reply.

"I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE A WORM."

With a loud roar, the dark mass hurls itself at the two mages. Pebbles and rocks pummel against the invisible barrier. The effort of keeping it upright and impenetrable causes Giles to sweat. One, maybe two more determined attacks like this and the barrier will crumble.

"It is as I said. I am a traveller in need," Giles raises his voice. Somehow he has to make the elemental listen to him. "I respectfully ask for your aid."

"SILENCE! YOUR BLOOD TASTES LIKE HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION. I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO THE LIKES OF YOU."

“Don’t confuse me with this man!” Giles snaps. He is still holding Ethan by the neck. Good. With a determined shove, he forces Ethan to his knees. Thankfully, Ethan doesn’t struggle. On the contrary, he lowers his head as though defeated. “It is his blood you tasted.”

Is it his imagination, or is the swirling maelstrom abating a little?

“It is as you say, his blood bears the taint of chaos, but he is not in charge. I am.” Giles continues against the din. Time to play his trump card: “He is my prisoner and of great value to the Slayer.”

“THE SLAYER?”

The mass of swirling stones and pebbles coalesces into a more solid shape, twice the size of a man, and four times his bulk; only vaguely humanoid, but with topaz crystals glowing where a human’s eyes would be located.

Good. Ethan might disagree, but Giles finds it easier to negotiate with something or someone whose head and eyes are where they belong.

“I am the Slayer’s most trusted advisor. I was on my way to bring her my prisoner, when demon magic overturned my … ah… carriage.” Do elemental lords notice when they are being lied to? This one seems to have slept for ages. Hopefully, whatever passes for a brain in that mass of rock and earth is still addled from its long sleep. “The enemies of the Slayer wish me dead and my prisoner freed.”

“I DO NOT TAKE PART IN THE PETTY WARS OF MORTALS.” The solid shape takes a shuffling step towards them, its topaz crystals shining with power and barely bridled anger.

“Do you wish this world to be overrun by foul demons? How long do you think these woods and mountains will remain untainted?” The elemental’s graveyard stench is enough to make Giles’s stomach heave, but he pushes the nausea away. Leaning on his fake staff, and putting most of his weight on his uninjured foot, Giles stands his ground, projecting all the confidence and righteousness that he can muster. “No matter how old and powerful you are,” he says firmly. “Even you can’t keep chaos at bay on your own.”

The elemental lord looms above them, motionless and silent, like a statue or an unfinished golem. All Giles can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Is this how he and Ethan are going to die? Squashed beyond recognition in a makeshift magic circle after yet another botched summoning ritual?

Giles does not dare take his eyes off the elemental, does not dare speak to Ethan, but his hand, which is still resting on the nape of Ethan’s neck, his hand speaks for him: with a tiny gentle stroke of his thumb…

“WHAT IS IT THAT YOU ASK OF ME?”

It takes all of Giles’s willpower not to let his relief show.

***


	4. Chapter 4

It may be possible to bribe on ordinary forest or earth spirit with a flask full of whiskey. Elemental lords are a different matter. They trade in promises and favours. Still, after some haggling Giles gets what they need most. No, not a teleportation spell to a warm sunny beach with Mai Tais and excellent medical facilities, even elemental lords have their limits, but a guide, transport, and the promise of shelter.

Their guide comes in the shape of a bluish dancing light, a will-o’-the-wisp. As for the transport, well, beggars can’t be choosy. Giles looks comfortable enough on the back of his mount, a white antlered stag as big as a horse. Ethan is less happy with his mount, an enormous black boar, with gleaming tusks and a rocky gait, but the animals are warm, and, more importantly, sure-footed. They carry their riders up and down narrow, winding slopes that Ethan wouldn’t have dared to walk in the light of day, let alone at night.

The forest is eerily quiet. Even their mounts don’t make a sound. Ethan opens his mouth to ask Giles about his ankle, when suddenly, without warning, the two beasts pick up speed. Like horses on a race track they rush through the silent forest, past looming trees and jagged boulders. Hanging on seems like madness, but letting go seems worse. Ethan digs his fingers into the boar’s coarse fur, and then, after a violent lurch, the ground is gone and they’re soaring through the dark. Ethan looks down and wishes he hadn’t. There’s a chasm beneath them, and at its bottom a glittering jagged line, a brook or river. Ethan can hear it rush in its bed.

A moment later, Ethan is almost thrown off, as the boar lands on the other side of the chasm. Ahead of him Giles is swaying, but he, too, manages to stay on. From then on the way leads mostly downwards until, finally, Ethan makes out a clearing and in its middle the dark shape of a tall building. A tower!

The will-o’-the-wisp dances across the snow-covered clearing and stops right next to a dark entrance. In its light it becomes clear that this isn’t a medieval ruin but a fairly modern, albeit neglected building. Its stolid no-frill architecture and the remains of metal railings and antenna on the flat roof betray its former military purpose. This must be one of the many watchtowers that used to guard the Inner German border and that were abandoned, when the two Germanies reunited.

The animals stop at the edge of the clearing. Ethan tries to spur his boar onwards, but the creature slowly turns its head to look at him. At the sight of its tusks and glowing red eyes, Ethan hastily slides off its back.

The boar gives off a snort that could be interpreted as laughter, then it starts to fade, like fog melting into the ground. Ethan rushes forward to help Giles dismount. Moments later, the white stag is gone as well.

The two mages regard the tower. “Not exactly the Ritz,” Ethan says, with forced cheer, “but it beats the middle of bloody nowhere. Come on, let’s get you inside. The formidable Miss Summers and her witch will find you here in no time.”

Together they stumble towards the tower. Giles is unable to walk without help. It is a load Ethan gladly shoulders, but of course Giles is too stubborn to put all his weight on Ethan. By the time they reach the tower, he looks gray and worn. His hand is clammy and cold sweat glistens on his face. And then he just collapses in Ethan’s arms. Out cold.

Great.

“Stupid git,” Ethan grumbles. He shoulders Giles in a fireman’s carry and staggers into the tower. It is pitch black inside. Glass crunches under his feet. The will-o’-the-wisp guides him up a flight of stairs to a large room without windows or furniture, before it winks out of existence, leaving Ethan and his heavy burden in complete darkness.

After making sure that there aren’t any sharp objects on the floor, Ethan lowers Giles to the floor. He shrugs out of his waistcoat and puts it under Giles’s head. Not much of a pillow but better than bare concrete. Then he searches Giles’s pockets. There! Three spells stored inside small semi-precious stones: light, warmth and healing. Everything they need to make it through the night. Unless of course the elemental lord double-crossed them….

No, the stones are warm to the touch, and easy to tell apart by their magical aura. Ethan is too exhausted to activate them the subtle way. His knife is gone, but he doesn’t need it to reopen the shallow cut in his palm. A few drops of blood are enough. The first spellstone starts to glow from within, warm and yellow, like the flame of a candle, only brighter. Sorcerer’s blood. Always an excellent catalyst.

The second stone reacts just as promptly. First it greedily soaks up Ethan’s blood then it becomes so hot that Ethan has to drop it. It looks like a tiny piece of burning coal, but it radiates more heat than a camp-fire.

The healing spell takes longer to cast. Giles’s ankle is a mess, black and blue and hideously swollen. No wonder Giles passed out. Ethan is not a healer by inclination. His interest in the human body and drugs has always leaned towards the recreational. However, after half an hour he is satisfied that he has done all he can. 

Giles’s unconsciousness has turned into a fitful sleep. Ethan can tell that Giles is dreaming.

Tempting. Where does Rupert go when he’s asleep? Is his sleep troubled? Are his dreams a source of strength? Or is his dreamspace inhabited by nightmares, with fangs and claws? What would he say if Ethan were to walk into his dreamspace, unannounced and uninvited? After all, Giles is a very private man.

Only one way to find out.

***

Ethan enters the grey and misty outskirts of Giles’s dreamspace quietly, but without disguise. Not so much like a thief in the night, but more like a wary traveller. An icy gust of wind greets him. Snow creaks underneath his shoes. Blast! Couldn’t Giles have picked Californian sunshine for his dreamspace? Miserable sod!

Stomping his feet, Ethan scans the horizon. In the distance he can make out the blurry, shimmering outline of a sprawling city that looks almost, but not quite like London.

Out here, will-o’-the-wisp images are born from stray thoughts and memories, only to die faster than a mayfly. Out here, manipulating Giles’s dream is child’s play. Ethan could catch one of these images and slip it on like a mask, to sneak through Giles’s dreamspace as though he belonged there. Or he could grow wings and fly like a magpie through this world of the subconscious, but he pulls the sprouting feathers back into his skin. Instead, he conjures himself a warm coat and a pair of well broken in seven-league winter boots, flaps up his collar and starts to walk.

It’s hard to put a finger on it, but Giles’s London has a distinct Early Eighties feel: Ethan passes small butcher shops with lamb halves hanging in the windows; a comic shop with a life-sized cardboard Judge Dredd; music shops that still sell vinyl records instead of CDs; Indian take-aways with affordable prices; off-licences stocking Liebfraumilch instead of mint flavoured beer. Ethan resists the temptation to step into one of the many cosy corner pubs for a quick pint. Instead, he heads for the nearest tube station.

First stop: British Museum. No Giles, only four mummies in the Egyptian section, playing five-card draw with live beetles for poker chips. With a dry rustle of tendons and parched skin they turn their heads to stare at him. Ethan beats a hasty retreat.

Second stop: King’s Cross. It’s only a short walk to the British Library. Giles has to be here somewhere. 18 million books make one hell of a comfort zone for an ex-librarian. Ethan searches the aisles for what seems like an eternity. No trace of Ripper.

Now what? Back at the tube station, Ethan studies the London Underground map and ponders his next move. Sunnydale? In Giles’s dreamspace the former Hellmouth is the last stop of the Piccadilly Line. 

Sounds of guitar play drift up from the tunnels, riding up the deserted escalators on gusts of warm air: “…London calling to the underworld, come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls….” Ethan decides it’s an invitation of sorts.

He follows the song down countless escalators until he reaches a dead end: a deserted platform. A seemingly endless train pulls in. A single door opens - slowly, almost reluctantly. Ethan peers inside. All seats are taken—except one. Oh well. Ethan shrugs, steps on board, and claims the empty seat. The doors bang shut and he’s on his way, allowing Giles's dream train to carry him towards an unknown destination.

He finds himself surrounded by a grey gauntlet of unblinking faces. His first thought is that the other passengers are staring at him, but then he realizes that he’s facing an even row of newspapers, each with a large photograph on the front page; Hundreds of different faces, with obituaries instead of headlines. Ethan is not surprised to find Randall and Deirdre among them. Others are familiar from the stroll he took in Buffy Summers’s dreamspace, but most of the faces are unfamiliar. Unknown or no, their combined stare is disconcerting. Ethan considers closing his eyes. No! This part of Giles’s mind is too dark and creepy to risk it.

Ethan is relieved when minutes or maybe hours later, the train pulls into a gloomy station. The sign on the wall says Hackney. Ethan steps off with alacrity.

The escalators don’t work. Ethan has to climb more stairs than he can count, but his seven-league boots serve him well. Eventually, he emerges, slightly winded, not in an underground station, but right in the middle of a deserted, run-down street, that is flanked by two rows of small, identical looking brick houses. Ethan squints at the dreary neighbourhood. Snow covers every roof and every fence, and even more snow is falling from the sky, as if to obscure all signs of neglect and disrepair. 

Ethan yelps, when something touches his ankles. He glances down, half expecting to find a scaly Lovecraftian creature wrapping its tentacles round his legs, but instead he discovers a cat. And not just any cat: treacle-black with a white collar, fat, and scarred, one ear slightly crooked, it’s a cat Ethan knows quite well but never expected to find here. He’s beginning to like this dream. “Crowley! Why hello, old boy! What are you doing here?” Smiling, Ethan crouches to pick the animal up, but Crowley darts out of his reach, daring him to follow. His yellow eyes glow like burning brimstone.

Ethan doesn’t need a guide. He knows this street like the back of his hand, but he follows the cat anyway. Crowley stops in front of number 13 and meows.

Home, sweet home.

***

His old house looks exactly like Ethan remembers it. The same grimy windows, the same peeling paint. No lights in any of the windows. It’s a gloomy sight, but it doesn’t bother him. On the contrary, Ethan feels welcome, like a time traveller coming home after a long trip into a grim future. He’s not surprised to find the front door key in his pocket.

He unlocks the door and steps into the hallway. The house is dark, silent and stone cold. Stale cigarette smoke, seasoned by the resinous smell of grass, and a faint hint of curry indicate that maybe the place isn’t as deserted as it seems. The house feels more detailed, much more solid than the other places he’s passed. This is it. Giles is here. No doubt about it.

Ethan fights the urge to rush up the stairs or yell “Honey, I’m home.” Instead, he stomps his feet, not only to shake the snow off his boots, but also to announce his arrival. Crowley slips past him and disappears through the open kitchen door at the end of the hallway.

Ethan flips the light switch. No effect. Obviously, the meter ran out again. Just like the old days, when they spent all their money on dope, records and spell books.

He tries to will the lights on, but the house resists. It may once have been Ethan’s, bought on the spur of the moment because he liked the idea of living in a house wearing the number 13, but right now it’s part of Rupert’s dream, where Rupert is in charge. Luckily, years of Initiative imprisonment have turned Ethan into a seasoned dreamspace traveller. He wills a handful of 50p coins into his pocket and feeds them to the gas and electricity meters under the stairs. Immediately, the lights come on, not just in the hallway, but also in the kitchen.

Outside this dream, the clock is ticking. Ethan knows his time on earth is running out fast. But in here it feels like he’s got all the time in the world. Enough time to turn on the gas heaters in all the downstairs rooms. Enough time to walk into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for a nice cuppa, even if it’s only dream-tea.

There’s a pot on the stew-splattered stove. Curious, Ethan lifts the lid: cold vegetable curry.

“Meow?”

“No curry for you, old boy, but let’s see what I can do for you….”

Ethan picks up the metal bowl that sits on the floor, rinses is out under the tap, hunts down a tin of cat food and sets the filled bowl down again. While Crowley tucks in, Ethan soaks up his surroundings.

Everything about this place spells out a lack of funds and a total disregard for order or middle class values: the cheap second-hand furniture, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, old newspapers, empty Rizla packs.

The dining table resembles a notebook, with names and phone numbers scribbled directly onto the surface; there are even a few lines of semi-coherent poetry, scratched into the wood by Deirdre’s lousy poetry group. Cigarettes have smoldered black scars into the wood, and mugs have left countless rings. There’s a battered chessboard with several pieces replaced by egg cups and other kitchen utensils, abandoned in mid-match.

It’s an incredible mess, a lot messier than Ethan remembers it, but probably an accurate picture. Tidying up had always ranked low on their list of priorities. Why waste time washing up or scrubbing the stove when you could be researching a spell or, even better, fucking like crazed weasels?

Several curries and chilies had burnt beyond recognition because Ripper had suddenly pushed Ethan to his knees and fucked his mouth with even, steady thrusts, before bending him over the old dining table, and ploughing into him with the ferocious urgency of a man trying to outrace an apocalypse. Good times. Centuries away.

Ethan is suddenly hard. So hard it hurts. He can taste Giles in his mouth; can feel Giles’s cock inside him. Ethan grips the edge of the old dining table with both hands and tries to calm his racing heart. 

He could take care of it, could just jerk off in this cluttered little corner of Giles’s dreamspace. Only, it doesn’t feel right. It’s not what he wants.

Ethan sits down, grabs the pack of cigarette skins and a pack of B & H, conjures a small lump of whacky-backy from his pocket and starts to build two joints. When the kettle whistles, he tosses tea bags into mugs, and wills fresh milk into the fridge before opening it. He could have just willed the tea and joints into existence but he finds the activity soothing.

Balancing the tray with both hands, Ethan ascends the narrow creaking stairs. He stops outside his old bedroom. Mustering all his courage, he pushes the door handle down with his elbow.

Time to meet Giles on his own turf.

***


	5. Chapter 5

It’s like opening a door to the Antarctic. A wave of glacial cold freezes the steaming mugs on his tray faster than he can blink.

At first glance, his old bedroom looks exactly like Ethan remembers it: the battered wardrobe, the spell books on the rickety nightstand, overflowing ashtrays on the floor, and stacks of LPs lying everywhere. Yet, everything is covered in jagged sheets of black ice: the furniture, his books, even the floor. Rows of needle-sharp icicles hang from the ceiling, creating a sense of having stepped into a giant maw.

That’s not all. The bed is gone. In its place there is an open grave with a mound of dark earth next to it.

Giles is standing at the window, with his back to Ethan. He’s not wearing what Ethan has come to think of as “Rupert’s Watcher-straitjacket”, but faded jeans (with a wooden stake tucked into the waistband), Doc Martins and a biker jacket. His hair is slightly longer here, and more unruly. Interesting.

Giles is alone. There’s no dream-Ethan, real-Ethan notices, with a tiny stab of disappointment. It would have been gratifying to walk in on a dream-blowjob. Still, Giles is here, in their old house, back in the old days, and the dream is so detailed, so utterly tangible, Ethan is certain Giles comes here often. 

“Hello Rupert.” Ethan pushes the door shut with his heel, causing several icicles to rain down from the ceiling. 

“Ethan?” Giles turns to face him. His dream self looks young, about thirty years old, but with an aura of experience. Quite irresistible, in fact, if it weren’t for an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and sadness.

“Are you here to haunt me again?” Giles asks. “Why won’t you leave me alone? What do you want from me?” 

Not quite the welcome Ethan hoped for. With a sigh he sets the frozen tray down on Giles's old amplifier. “What do I want? A little warmth would be nice. I’m sick of freezing my balls off.” Ethan gestures at the frozen room. “May I?"

"It's your house."

"True. But it's your dream."

Giles adjusts his spectacles like a teacher suspecting foul play from a student. “I’m dreaming?”

“Yes, my friend, you are.” Ethan can’t help but smile at Giles’s surprise. “You’re out cold in some decrepit old watchtower somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere.” He flutters his lashes. “And your good old friend Ethan tucked you in. Now, about the ice. May I?” 

Giles's permission comes as a slow nod.

It does not require genuine magic, only a bit of hand waving and mumbo jumbo to melt the ice. Within seconds the room is habitable again, with a roaring gas fire and an aroma of freshly brewed tea. Only the open grave remains, resisting Ethan’s attempt to simply wish it away. Maybe Giles’s dreamspace is taking its cue from Ethan’s knowledge that his grave is still waiting for him.

“That’s better.” Ethan picks up one of the mugs. ”Tea?”

A silent headshake is his only answer. Even asleep, Giles is bristling with suspicion.

“Suit yourself.” Sipping from his mug, Ethan joins Giles at the window to study the unfamiliar view that Rupert's subconscious has conjured.

A blindingly bright desert stretches out before them, with only a handful of bare, bone-white trees to act as landmarks. A cougar is strolling down a sand dune. Why on earth is Giles dreaming about a cougar?

A flippant remark about cats great and small dies in his throat, when Ethan catches his own reflection in the window. What the hell? Ethan glances at his hands: Pallid skin and fingernails that look like chipped talons, the hands of a dead man.

There used to be a mirror inside the wardrobe. Ethan rushes over to open it and check his reflection. Bugger! How on earth is he supposed to get into Giles’s pants looking like a sodding corpse?

Granted, this is Giles’s dream, but Ethan’s own sense of self should have overruled Giles’s preconceptions. Ethan and Ethan alone should shape his own appearance.

“Is that how you see me?” Ethan asks. “As some kind of zombie? Well, thanks a lot.”

“You died.” It sounds like an accusation.

“I know.” Ethan squints at the bullet hole in his skull. For a fleeting second he wonders what it would feel like to poke a finger into his own noggin. “I remember.”

Ethan stares at his reflection, willing it to change. In here his appearance depends mostly on how he sees himself. He can cheat, of course, make himself younger and more desirable—. No! He is who he is. Not a zombie, not a monster. Just a man. Scarred, alive and very scared. Only when his reflection matches the person he thinks he is, Ethan shuts the wardrobe and turns to Giles. “To answer your question: no, Rupert, I’m not here to haunt you.” Ethan purses his lips. “But I’ll definitely look into that option, next time I die.”

For a second Giles looks like he’s about to take a swing at him; angry, but with a gratifying amount of pain underneath.

Raising both hands, Ethan dredges up a smile. “Just kidding.”

Abruptly, Giles turns away. He stares at the glaring desert as though it requires his complete attention. “You’re not even real,” he mutters.

“Oh, but I am.” Ethan grabs his arm. “Rupert, look at me, I’m as alive and real as it gets. Just because you’re dreaming, doesn’t mean that I’m a figment of your imagination. Remember how I helped Buffy find her friend?”

Giles slowly turns to face him. Behind him, darkness descends on the desert landscape, so fast, it’s as though someone had thrown a switch. A tremor rumbles through Giles’s dreamscape. Like a distant earthquake. “You invaded my dreams?” 

“Now, I wouldn’t use as harsh a word as this…” Ethan backpedals.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Giles’s voice is dangerously soft. “And? Did you have a good look around?”

“What? No! You really think I came all this way to rifle through your sock drawer?”

Giles moves with the unexpected speed of a skilled fighter. In here his martial arts knowledge is no longer just theoretical. Faster than he can blink Ethan finds himself sandwiched between the unyielding wardrobe and an irate Watcher. Instinctively, he raises his arm to protect his face. “No, no, please, listen—”

Giles catches his wrist and pins it against the wall, above Ethan’s head. “Stop playing games, Ethan! Why are you here?”

Giles is so close that Ethan is able to breathe in his scent: an intoxicating mixture of aftershave, traces of whiskey, cigarette smoke, male musk and the leather of his jacket. Ethan’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest. He can feel himself growing hard. And, judging by Giles’s fast breathing and the throbbing artery at his throat, so is he.

“Do you really have to ask, Ripper? It’s not like you to be so slow on the uptake.” Ethan chuckles. “Think about it! Right now, we’re both lying on dirty concrete floor in some dark and dank watchtower, totally knackered, and unlikely to get it up, whereas in here we have warmth and everything else we can think of. Even a bed, should we need it….”

Ethan pauses. When he turns his head to glare at the open grave, Giles follows his gaze. This time the grave disappears, making way for a king-sized bed.

“This, my friend, is your last chance to bugger me senseless.” Ethan slowly raises his free hand to touch Giles’s face. It sends a stab through his heart when Giles catches his wrist half-way, but he does not struggle. “Because I can promise you one thing, Rupert: come sunrise I’ll be out of your hair. For good.”

Giles’s expression is a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, pain, sadness, confusion…

Ethan’s next words would have been ‘For crying out loud, Ripper, why can’t you just seize the moment?’ but then Giles does just that.

***

He lets go of Ethan’s wrists, but only to grab his head with both hands; to hold that wicked mouth in place, so he can thrust his tongue inside. With hungry, forceful kisses Giles brushes all words aside. He encounters a hard mouth that is desperate to be plundered, and a tongue that resists only to yield with complete abandon.

It’s only a dream! Not real. Tomorrow, in the cold light of morning, everything that happens here will be a cocktail of jumbled images, of threadbare memories and wishful thinking.

Only right now? Everything feels utterly real. Ethan feels real. His greedy mouth, and the way his breath hitches; the warmth of his hands on Giles’s skin; his sinewy, masculine body and the way he’s surrendering to Giles. In this mercurial world, where unchecked fury has the power to unleash lightning storms, where buried memories stir restlessly in their graves, where unfulfilled desires dance out of the woodwork, in this world of change, Ethan feels more real, more solid than he ever felt in Sunnydale.

When Giles pulls back to catch his breath, there’s a dark, desperate gleam in Ethan’s eyes.

“I know you don’t want to hear it…,” Ethan mutters. He gropes around, causing the zippers and chains of Giles’s biker jacket to jingle, then grabs Giles by the collar to reel him back in. “But I’ve missed—“

Giles darts at Ethan’s mouth, partly to shut him up, and partly to silence himself; because he’s not ready to say it out loud: that in a closeted recess of his soul he, too, has longed for this, has longed for Ethan.

Even as he is licking and nibbling, and gasping into Ethan’s mouth, and raking his fingers through Ethan’s woefully short hair, Giles can’t quite turn off that nagging Watcher’s voice inside him. The voice that’s telling him he’s playing with fire. That he’s kissing a consummate liar. Just because some of the things Ethan told him ring true, doesn’t mean Ethan is trustworthy. One thing is certain, though: Giles’s anger at finding Ethan in his dreamspace is gone, replaced by the realization that by coming here, into Giles’s mind, Ethan has placed himself at his mercy.

Giles maneuvers Ethan backwards, trapping him between the wall and his own body. Not just to feel Ethan’s hardness right next to his own, but because he senses that this is what Ethan wants him to do.

Perhaps it’s a kind of telepathy, because, technically, they are sharing a brain right now, but deep down Giles knows that whatever Ethan’s hidden agenda may be, it is not about wreaking chaos and destruction. Not this time. This isn’t the Ethan who goaded him until he snapped, the Ethan who relished and nurtured the darkness inside him.

He can feel Ethan tugging at his jacket, and realizes Ethan is trying to push it off his shoulders. Without interrupting the kiss, Giles shrugs out of the sleeves. With a dull thud, the heavy garment lands on the floor. Of course, with a simple snap of his fingers Giles could have teleported it to the moon, along with the rest of their clothes, but where is the fun in that?

“’Kiss the Librarian’?” Ethan chuckles as they briefly separate to yank Giles’s t-shirt over his head.

“A three-piece suit?” Giles parries, while his hands fumble with the buttons of Ethan’s vest. It feels weird. He’s never peeled a man out of a formal suit before. Weirder still: it makes his pulse race.

Once the vest is gone, he reaches for Ethan’s slate-grey tie. Loosening the knot causes a delicious tingle of anticipation.

Meanwhile, Ethan’s hands are deftly unbuttoning his fly and pulling down the zipper.

Their eyes meet. Giles’s heart skips a beat at the sense of finality in Ethan’s gaze. It dawns on him that this time Ethan is truly saying farewell.

It’s a chilling realization, but then Ethan’s hand slips into Giles’s briefs to firmly squeeze his stiff prick and fondle his balls…

From then on everything becomes a blur of eager hands and lips on bare skin. The bed is only a few yards away, but even that is too far. After more rubbing and squeezing, Ethan drops to his knees, to take him into his mouth. The feeling is so intense, Giles grabs Ethan by the hair to slow him down.

He is dimly aware of dozens of candles flaring up. The turntable starts to play. Knights in White Satin? No way! This is still Giles’s dream. Moments later, the Stranglers chase The Moody Blues away.

Ethan’s mouth on his prick feels as brilliant as ever. Actually, brilliant doesn’t even begin to cover it. Starting from the soles of his feet an exhilarating heat travels through his body, up his calves, up his spine, until Giles feels like all his nerve endings are on fire.

But there is one thing he wants even more than Ethan’s mouth. When he pulls back, Ethan stays on his knees, a look on his face that’s one part demure and two parts smug.

‘Get up and turn around.’ Giles doesn’t even have to speak the words. A minute nod of his head is gesture enough.

Smiling, Ethan stands up and turns to face the wall. Both hands braced against the wall, legs spread invitingly, he offers himself to Giles. Putting Giles fully in charge.

“Remember that gig in West Kensington?” Giles mutters, as he aligns himself; then he reaches with his free hand around Ethan’s waist and starts to jerk him off. 

Ethan gasps. “Good times,” he chokes out.

“Good times,” Giles agrees, remembering their first - hurried, doped-up but nonetheless brilliant - shag to the sounds of “No more Heroes.”

And there it is: that breathless, speechless moment of completion, when Giles pushes forward and Ethan pushes back, slowly taking him in all the way, until Giles is buried to the hilt.

* * *

They end up in bed, eventually, but only for the afterglow. Lying side by side, and listening first to 10cc and then Brian Eno, they watch the smoke from Ethan’s joint swirl towards the ceiling. Obviously, they can’t get high here, unless they want to, and even then it won’t be the real thing but more like a rerun on TV. Still, the sweet smell has a mellowing effect on Giles.

That tight, venomous ache inside his chest, the petty urge to crush and punish, is gone, at least for the moment. Now when he looks at Ethan, he can think of so many things they could do together, ordinary stuff, like go out for a few beers or maybe a concert, listen to old records, vinyl, of course, talk about books. Grown-up stuff that would have Buffy and the others run for cover. Of course, there is also the option of making Ethan gasp and beg again, and cry out with pleasure.

The trouble is, the suspicious Watcher part of him is back. Giles still can’t shake the dread that Ethan is playing him; or – more likely - that some unspeakable power, of First Evil caliber, is using Ethan to manipulate him.

Ethan may be like a boomerang, always coming back. But coming back from the dead under his own steam? Way out of his league.

Giles swallows. His mouth is suddenly dry.

“How long have you been back?” He asks without preamble.

“They brought me back this morning, at sunrise.” Ethan does not move. His gaze is trained on the ceiling and his voice is strained. “The earth was wet and cold. And almost frozen. But once I’d dug myself out—”, Ethan turns to look at him “—the air tasted fresh and tart. Like magic. A sea of white mist rolled towards me. When I saw the Tor and St. Michael’s Tower in the distance, poking through the fog, I knew.” 

“Knew what?”

“Knew who’d buried me there.” 

Giles sighs, remembering how he and Willow dug Ethan’s grave in the only fitting resting place for Ethan Rayne: the most magical place in the whole of England: Glastonbury. Avalon.

“Who brought you back?” Giles asks the question that has been burning in his mind ever since Ethan stopped him at the autobahn exit. “Who are ‘they’?”

“Look, all this is still a dream; whatever I tell you now, the memory will scatter as soon as you wake up. I’ll explain everything, answer all your questions. But out there, in the real world. The truth, and nothing but the truth. Scout’s honour.”

Giles opens his mouth to object, but Ethan silences him with a lewd glance and a hand on his thigh, and suddenly more urgent matters require his attention…


	6. Chapter 6

Giles wakes, heart racing madly, feeling uncommonly chipper, yet at the same time bereft. His body is tingling, caught between keen arousal and warm afterglow. Vivid memories of an intensely erotic dream send a shiver through him. 

Acute embarrassment spurs him awake. For Heaven’s sake, he’s not a teenager anymore! Fortunately, the memories are already fading, crumbling like sandcastles under the onslaught of the tide. All Giles has to do is let go…

Only this is more than just a dream. Giles sits up with a start.

Oh dear, he had sex with Ethan! Dreamspace-sex, but still. Mind-bendingly brilliant sex. With Ethan.

All watchers are familiar with dream recollection techniques. Giles is no exception. But this is the first time that memorizing a dream feels like fast-forwarding through a collection of blue movies: There are images of Ethan on his knees, sucking him off; of Ethan riding on his cock; of Giles trailing kisses down Ethan’s spine, of Giles going down on Ethan…. Did they really float again?

Suddenly, Giles feels hot under his collar.

Where is Ethan?

He takes in his surroundings, half expecting the old rogue to chuckle and reach for Giles’s raging hard-on. A glowing pebble is lying on the bare concrete, only a few yards away, radiating warmth like a campfire. Another pebble is giving off light.

Ethan is gone.

The discovery spurs Giles’s heart into another gallop, but if from knee-jerk suspicion or loss he can’t quite tell. In Ethan’s case the two are hard to tell apart.

Giles touches his temples. No horns. Good. Just because part of him wants to trust Ethan doesn’t mean he can. A quick check reveals that he is still human and in one piece. Even better: The pain in his ankle is gone, replaced by the warm tingle of healing magic.

A stray memory tumbles through his brain. Something Ethan said. Something to do with sunrise…

The room he is in has no windows, only two flights of stairs: one going up, one going down. Spurred on by a sudden and quite irrational sense of urgency, Giles rushes up the stairs.

He emerges in a large, dimly lit room that resembles the command bridge of an ocean liner. Huge panorama windows on all sides let in what little light there is. Of course, the tower has been completely gutted. Furniture, window panes, even the wiring, everything is long gone. Snow has drifted in, covering the floor near the windows.

The landscape surrounding the tower is cloaked in winter and eerily silent. The air is frosty, but, thankfully, the wind has gone to sleep. The cold has lost its edge.

Ethan is standing at the window, facing east, where dawn is slowly diluting the night’s blackness. He appears calm, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gives his agitation away.

Snow creaks under Giles’s feet as he approaches his erstwhile friend.

Ethan turns to regard him, his expression unfathomable. “Come to say goodbye?”

“You promised me the truth. Now’s the time.” Giles keeps his voice business-like. “Start with the car crash.”

For a second Ethan looks crestfallen, but then he nods. “Someone hexed the car; put a jinx with a death clause on it. A lethal dose of bad luck, so to speak. I sensed it when it went off. My kind of spell: nifty, nasty. Only—“

“Only not this time?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m assuming there’s a reason why we aren’t dead?”

“Luck. A deer in our path took the fall for us.” For a moment Ethan hedges, but then he adds: “Also, I… uh… stopped it from leaping out of the way. When Bambi died the spell lost its momentum.”

Giles is not sure he likes the thought of a deer dying in his stead, and of owing his life to chaos magic. But then he and Buffy are already in Ethan’s debt for his help in saving Willow’s life…

“Abramelin’s Sacred Magic?”

“A dull read, if you ask me. Personally, I couldn’t care less who wins the auction…”

“Cut the flavor text!” Giles snaps.

Ethan lowers his gaze. “Rumor has it, the scriptio inferior deals with a prophecy about a forthcoming recreation of the universe. And I know for a fact that the Twilight Group has been after that book for some time. I thought if I helped you acquire it for your Council, maybe you’d consider…”

Giles frowns. “Consider what?”

“I thought that maybe you’d help me.” Ethan’s voice cracks. The fear Giles has been picking up from him all night, now it shoots to the surface like a diver who has run out of air.

“Help you? With what?”

“When they brought me back she said-”

“They?” Giles snaps. “She?”

“The Powers That Be.” Ethan hunches his shoulders and pushes both hands into his pockets. It gives him a sullen air that Giles remembers only too well. He turns his back on Giles to scan the horizon. “They sent this non-corporeal chit to talk to me. Twenty-four hours, she said, that’s all I get. A reprieve. From one sunrise to the next.”

Twenty-four hours!? Ethan’s words act like a bucket of ice-cold water: For a second, Giles’s breath seems to be trapped inside his chest, rendering him speechless.

When Ethan continues his voice sounds dull, reminding Giles of a cracked cup. "Twenty-four hours to put my affairs in order, she said. To sort out any unfinished business. Tell me, Rupert, what’s a man supposed to do with just one day before eternal damnation?”

Giles grabs Ethan by the shoulder and roughly yanks him around only to come face to face with a grimace of utter despair. He has never seen Ethan so terrified, not even when they unleashed the Sleepwalker.

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say before the words burst free: “What did you do?”

“What did I—?” For a second, Ethan appears confused, but anger isn’t far behind. He shrugs off Giles’s hand and steps back, out of his reach. “Oh. Right. Is that what you think? That I sold you out? Made a deal?”

The truth is, Giles doesn’t know what to think, not yet, but he’s not going to advertise it. All he knows is that he needs to get to the bottom of this fast, because in the east, above the jagged crest of snow-laden treetops, the sky is already turning purple. The key to this is to keep Ethan talking; to strip away the half-truths and veiled insinuations, and, if necessary, Ethan’s pride, too.

“You’d sell your own mother for less,” Giles states with all the coldness he can muster. Meanwhile, his thoughts are racing, as he runs their entire encounter through his head again, everything Ethan said and did since his sudden reappearance. “I know you, Ethan. There you were, freshly resurrected, with the clock ticking. And you thought: ‘Sod this; I’m not going back, not if I can help it.’ You’re telling me you didn’t try to make a deal, to somehow buy yourself out of this mess?”

"Who’d I make a deal with? Come on, Rupert. I helped the Slayer. News like that travels fast. Demons and whathaveyou wouldn't touch me with a barge pole.”

“What about the Twilight cabal? They should be right up your alley.”

“Call me petty, but I don’t make deals with people who put a bullet in my brain." Ethan shakes his head. “No deals.”

That’s when everything finally starts to make sense: the COW-sign Ethan held up to stop him, even the three-piece suit and the old cold war stories about borders and defectors. Ethan is offering to work for the Watchers Council - in exchange for Giles’s protection. Only, being Ethan he can’t just come out with it, Oh no. Ethan has to waste precious time pussyfooting around. Inwardly, Giles berates himself. How could he have been so slow-witted?

Nevertheless, something in Ethan’s words doesn’t ring true.

Giles folds his arms in front of his chest. “So, you decided to come to me. What makes you think I’d help?”

“You really go for the jugular, don’t you, Ripper.” The look on Ethan’s face is indescribable. “What if I tell you I've changed, Rupert? That I'm a new man?" 

"You're just wearing a new suit, that's all," Giles states harshly, but without raising his voice. “You invaded my dreams! You violated my privacy!”

“You liked it well enough when you were shagging me!” There’s enough acid in Ethan’s voice to eat through flesh and bone.

With great effort Giles manages to control his features.

Maybe he doesn’t know Ethan as well as he thinks, because what he gets instead of more accusations is an almost inaudible sigh and an unexpected confession: "You’re right, Rupert, maybe I haven't changed that much. But I’m willing to try."

"Because you're scared."

"Of course, I'm scared!” Ethan explodes. He starts to pace. “I'd be stupid not to. You don’t know what it’s like. Hell is—” He stops. When he continues his voice is hoarse. “It’s physical torture blended with emotional anguish. Hell is crawling over broken mirrors towards something that’s forever out of your reach."

"Or someone?" Giles asks, reading between the lines.

"Or someone." Ethan holds his gaze.

"What do you want from me, Ethan?"

Ethan pulls a cell phone from his pocket and offers it to Giles. “Looks like a mobile, I know, but it’s a conduit. To call the Powers.”

Giles makes no move to take it.

“Vouch for me, Rupert. Call the Powers and tell them you want me on your team or in your Council or whatever. Tell them I’m part of the war effort. Tell them your Slayer needs my knowledge and skills, or that you need to interrogate me. Tell them anything you want. Incarcerate me, if you must. I don’t care. But don’t let them take me!”

The hand holding the conduit-phone is shaking ever so slightly.

With great effort, Giles keeps his face impassive and his voice even. “How many of your chaos chums did you call for help before you came to me?”

Seconds tick away, until Giles no longer expects an answer.

Meanwhile, the eastern sky is blushing.

“Two.” Ethan finally admits. With a sigh he lowers the hand with the phone.

Giles nods. He did not expect to be at the top of Ethan’s list. Not really. The only real surprise is that Ethan decided to tell the truth, and that the truth stings, just a little.

“Ethan, I cannot help you, and you know it. The simple truth is: I can’t trust you. I can’t put Buffy or the Council or anyone else at risk, just because I’d like to see you safe and sound.”

Ethan nods, slowly, as though Giles just measured up to his expectations. “Tell me, Rupert, if I swore loyalty to your Council, would you trust me then?”

“You already gave your loyalty to Janus.”

“He didn’t exactly keep his side of the bargain, now, did he?” Ethan dredges up a quirky, lopsided grin that is full of self-mockery, but his strangled voice gives his hurt away. “Janus left me to rot in my cell, when I would have signed anything, would have made any kind of deal. None of the dark powers cared.”

"And that surprises you?! That's what happens, when you make deals with chaos!" Giles realizes he’s shouting and closes his mouth with a snap.

Ethan looks sheepish. "True, but I always assumed I'd find a way to, you know, come out on top."

“And that’s precisely why I can’t trust you.” Giles swallows. He can’t remember the last time he felt so utterly powerless. It gives him an inkling of what Buffy must have felt, when she realized that Dawn’s blood was already dripping into the dimensional rift… It takes all his self-control to keep his voice from cracking. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I truly am.”

Ethan does not answer. Instead, he quickly turns away, locking him out, but not before Giles has glimpsed his shattered expression.

Giles’s throat feels tight and sore, as though he’s being strangled. He casts about for something to say, but what comfort can he possibly offer to a man sentenced to eternal torment?

As Giles steps forward to join Ethan at the window, their hands touch – almost by accident.

A bitter pain blossoms inside his chest. Before he knows it, he’s caught Ethan’s hand. At first it feels limp with resignation but when Giles threads his fingers through Ethan’s, his erstwhile friend and lover holds tight with the desperation of a man about to fall off a cliff.

They stand like this for almost a minute.

Ethan’s rapid, panicked breathing cuts through the silence that surrounds the watchtower. Listening to his struggle for composure makes Giles feel like an intruder.

In the east the sky is bursting into colour. Streaks of pink and orange are bleeding across the firmament.

Ethan is the first to find his voice again. “Brilliant, isn’t it?” He gestures at the horizon, sounding calm, almost serene. “Did you know that the colours are caused by atmospheric dust scattering the sun’s light, by drops of water and specks of dirt?”  
Giles shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

The sun’s corona peeks through the treetops, setting the sky on fire. Sunrise. Here it is.

“Well,” Ethan finally extricates his hand. “I guess that’s my cue.” He raises the other hand with the conduit-phone in it. “Messenger girl said to call her, once I’ve got my affairs in order.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Giles exclaims, suddenly struck by the absurdity of the situation. “Resurrections cause a major upheaval in the balance of the universe. Do you honestly expect me to believe that the Powers That Be, beings of immense power and - one would hope – wisdom, went through that much trouble to give a disciple of chaos twenty-four hours to settle his affairs?”

“Now that you mention it: it does sound rather thin,” Ethan admits. “But that’s what she told me.”

Giles frowns. “You said The Powers That Be resurrected you, but you never told me why.”

“See, this is where it gets odd. Messenger girl said that some witch intervened on my behalf.”

“A witch?!”

“Apparently, the Powers owed her some sort of favor. Something to do with taking the heat for one of their champions.”

Giles motions for Ethan to continue.

“The thing is, I never even met the bird. Apparently, she went to the Powers and said I deserved a second chance. She said I saved her girl.” Ethan shakes his head. When he continues, his voice is raw. “Truth is, I don’t know who or what she was talking about. But when you’re down there and you get a chance to get out, even if it’s only for a few hours, you take it.”

For a moment Giles is confounded, but then understanding dawns. “What was her name?”

“Hmm?”

“The witch. What was her name?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Tara!” Even after all those years speaking Tara’s name is like a stab in the throat.

“You know her, then?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Well, give her my thanks.”

Giles breathes a sigh, as the chill of grief mingles with the warmth of her memory. “That won’t be possible. She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Ethan turns his head to study Giles's face. "A friend of yours?"

My Slayer’s best friend’s significant other? Giles swallows, suddenly ashamed that he is struggling with the right words to describe Tara. “Yes, a friend.”

Watchers are taught to be what Buffy always called stiff-upper-lippy. They’re told to get over the deaths of their Slayers, colleagues, friends and even their loved ones; to bury their dead and prepare for the next battle. And the next. It’s the bigger picture that counts, or in Xander’s words: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

On a normal day, Giles can make those grave decisions and live with them; like killing Ben; like betraying Spike to Principal Wood. On a normal day, he can think of the dead as war casualties: Randall, Deirdre, Thomas and Henry; Jenny, Tara, Anya and Cordelia; the Potentials and Slayers. And he can put their deaths behind him. On a normal day, he can live with the knowledge that it will happen again: that sooner or later he will toss a shovel full of dirt onto yet another coffin and listen politely to Christian phrases that might as well be Chinese, only to drown his grief later, when no one’s looking.

However, today is not a normal day.

Giles’s heart is hammering, as he pries the conduit-phone out of Ethan’s hand. With a determined press of his thumb Giles hits dial.

At once, the air in front of him shimmers and Ethan’s ‘non-corporeal chit’ appears, sitting comfortably on the window sill, with her back to the fiery sky.

She’s beautiful, with perfect auburn hair and impeccable nails, dressed in a white silk blouse, tight designer jeans, and stylish stilettos that Buffy would kill for.

“Hello Giles.” Her smile is even more dazzling, more radiant than Giles remembers it. “It’s good to see you alive and well.”

His jaw drops. “Cordelia?”

“The one and only. Higher being now, busy busy.” She frowns at him. “Which, from the look on your face, Angel never bothered to tell you. Typical!”

Giles finds himself grinning. For once he’s rendered speechless in a good way.

Cordelia returns his grin before turning her head to address Ethan. “Hello, buster. Short time, no see. And? Are you ready? Metaphorical bags packed, and all?”

“Don’t have a choice, do I?” Ethan looks pale.

“We gave you twenty-four hours’ worth of making choices. Only you know whether you made the most of them,” Cordelia says, not without kindness.

Ethan wags his head and produces a half-choked chuckle. “Well, I got one last roll in the hay. In fact, more than one. And I get to say goodbye. That’s something.” He turns to look Giles squarely in the eye. “Be safe, old friend. And if you happen to come across Twilight and his cohorts? Do me a favour: Kick their arses.”

Giles opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Well, then. What are we waiting for?” Ethan steps forward, wrists offered as though he expects Cordelia to slap handcuffs on him. “I’m ready. Off we go.”

“No!” Giles bursts out. “No, he’s not.”

Cordelia raises a questioning eyebrow.

Ethan shakes his head. “Don’t, Rupert. Just don’t. This is hard enough as it is.”

Giles ignores him. “Cordelia, wait. Is there no way we can, uh, avoid this?”

Cordelia purses her lips and taps her watch-less wrist. Meanwhile, the sun has cleared the horizon and is bathing them in warm pastels. Its brightness is almost painful in its beauty. “Come on, Giles, I’m on a schedule here. If there’s something you want to say, just say it.”

“I was thinking, Ethan’s skills and knowledge might be extremely useful in the forthcoming confrontation with Twilight....”

“Is that the part where you offer to incarcerate him?” Cordelia asks him sweetly. “And what happened to ‘I can’t trust you’?”

“You were listening!? Have you no shame?” Ethan exclaims in mock horror. “Did you hear that, Rupert? This so-called higher being violated our privacy!”

“So-called?” Cordelia exclaims, with her hands on her hips. “Newsflash, pal, I’m standing right here, and I’m the one who passes your sentence!”

Ethan looks like he’s about to say more, but when Giles shoots him withering glance, he wisely shuts his mouth with a snap.

Giles clears his throat. “Look Cordelia, it’s true, Ethan has done despicable things in the past, and we have every reason not to trust him,” he concedes, trying very hard to sound calm and rational, when he knows for a fact that he’s neither. “But I didn’t trust Spike, either, and look what he did: He sacrificed himself to close the Hellmouth.” Giles holds her gaze. “We all make mistakes.”

“Yadda, yadda.” Cordelia dismisses his words with a languid flick of her wrist. “Does that mean you’re going to vouch for him?”

Giles hesitates for only a heartbeat. “Yes, I’ll vouch for him.”

“To the point that you’ll trade places with Mr. Rayne should he betray our trust?”

Ethan inhales sharply.

“If necessary”, Giles hears himself say, not quite certain at what moment exactly he decided to abandon all reason.

“No!” Ethan shouts. “Rupert, don’t!”

Giles silences him with a brisk gesture.

“Why?” Cornelia asks softly. “And don’t insult my intelligence by saying it’s for the greater good.”

At least a dozen different, half-way reasonable answers race through his head, among them ‘because Ethan saved my life’, which Giles is beginning to suspect may have been the reason behind Ethan’s resurrection. In the end he settles for the answer closest to the truth: “Because a world without second chances is not worth fighting for.”

Cordelia smiles. “Very well.” She turns to regard the chaos mage who radiates tension like a coiled spring. “Mr. Rayne. Consider yourself on parole.” She wags an admonishing finger. “Any mayhem you want to cause? Make sure it’s aimed in the right direction.”

Ethan exhales, looking faint with relief.

“Giles?” Cordelia leans forward to breathe a non-corporeal kiss on his cheek. “You’re a terrible liar,” she whispers into his ear, sounding utterly pleased with herself. “Have fun, and try not to screw this up.”

And with that she disappears.

When Ethan takes an uncertain step towards him, Giles rushes forward to meet him. As he presses his lips on Ethan’s, Giles finally admits to himself what Cordelia must have known all along: that digging another grave for Ethan would have broken him. Once and for all.

 

THE END


End file.
